O 


EMS'- 

y    f  X 


3 

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LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 


•; 


Vl^^^i/^H^iv^vp 


THE    POEMS 


FREDERICK  LOCKER  - 


AUTHORIZED   EDITION 


HBCFREDEWCK3* 


NEW   YORK 

WHITE,    STOKES,    &    ALLEN 
1884 


MARY  USE 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  OLD  CRADLE 7 

PICCADILLY,  .        .        .        .        .        .  n 

THE  OLD  GOVERNMENT  CLERK,  .        .  15 

THE  PILGRIMS  OF  PALL  MALL,        .  20 

MANY  YEARS  AFTER 24 

TEMPORA  MUTANTUR  !  27 

CIRCUMSTANCE 30 

ARCADIA 32 

THE  CASTLE  IN  THB  AIR,     .        .        .38 

A  WISH 44 

GERALDINB  GREEN  :  — 

1.  THE  SERENADE 47 

2.  MY  LIFE  is  A  ,  ...  48 

VANITY  FAIR 50 

BRAMBLE-RISE, 53 

OLD  LETTERS, 57 


MAt/0 


22CG36 


iv  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

MY  FIRST-BORN 60 

THE  WIDOW'S  MITE 63 

ST.  GEORGE'S,  HANOVER  SQUARE,  .  64 

A  HUMAN  SKULL 66 

To  MY  OLD  FRIEND  POSTUMUS,  .  69 

LOULOIJ  AND  HER  CAT,  ...  71 

THE  NYMPH  OF  THE  WELL,  .  .  74 
"HER  QUIET  RESTING-PLACE  is  FAR 

AWAY," 78 

REPLY  TO  A  LETTER  ENCLOSING  A 

LOCK  OF  HAIR,  ....  81 

THE  BEAR  PIT 86 

MY  NEIGHBOUR  ROSE,  ...  89 
THE  OLD  OAK  TREE  AT  HATFIELD 

BROADOAK 93 

To  MY  GRANDMOTHER,  ...  99 

THE  SKELETON  IN  THE  CUPBOARD,  .  103 

ON  AN  OLD  MUFF,  ....  107 
AN  INVITATION  TO  ROME,  AND  THE 

REPLY  :— 

1.  THE  INVITATION,     .        .        .  in 

2.  THE  REPLY 117 

GERALDINE 122 

THE  HOUSEMAID,        .                       .  126 


CONTENTS.  V 

PAGE 

THE  JESTER'S  PLEA 129 

To  MY  MISTRESS i32 

MY  MISTRESS'S  BOOTS 134 

THE  ROSE  AND  THE  RING,       .       .  13? 

NUPTIAL  VERSES 139 

MRS.  SMITH 142 

IMPLORA  PACB, 145 

MR.  PLACID'S  FLIRTATION,       .       .  147 

BEGGARS, *53 

THE  JESTER'S  MORAL,  15? 

ADVICE  TO  A  POET 162 

AN  ASPIRATION 166 

A  GARDEN  IDYLL 168 

ST.  JAMES'S  STREET 171 

ROTTEN  Row i7S 

A  NICE  CORRESPONDENT  !         .       .  178 

AN  OLD  BUFFER, 181 

To  LINA  OSWALD,      ....  184 

ON  "A  PORTRAIT  OF  A  LADY,"  .  .  186 
THE  Music  PALACE,  ....  189 
A  TERRIBLE  INFANT,  .  .  .  .  193 
WITH  A  BOOK  OF  SMALL  SKETCHES,  193 

AT  HURLINGHAM 194 

UNREFLECTING  CHILDHOOD,    .       .        197 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

LITTLE  DINKY, 199 

GERTRUDE'S  NECKLACE,     ...        201 

GERTRUDE'S  GLOVE 203 

MABEL  :— 

1.  AT  HER  WINDOW,  .        .        .        204 

2.  HER  MUFF 205 

To  LINA  OSWALD,       ....        208 

THE  REASON  WHY 210 

A  WINTER  FANTASY,  ....       211 
THE  UNREALIZED  IDEAL,       .        .        .213 
IT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN,      ...        215 
LOVE,  TIME,  AND  DEATH,    .       .       .217 
THE  OLD  STONEMASON,     ...       219 
A  RHYME  OF  ONE,         ....    221 

MY  SONG, 223 

INCHBAE, 226 

ANY  POET  TO  His  LOVE,  ...       228 

THE  CUCKOO, 230 

HEINE  TO  His  MISTRESS,  ...       231 
FROM  THE  CRADLE,       .       .       .       .    232 

THE  TWINS 233 

AN  EPITAPH 234 

BABY  MINE 235 

Du  RYS  DE  MADAME  D'ALLEBRET,     .    237 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

PAGE 

THE  LADY  I  LOVE 238 

OUR  PHOTOGRAPHS 241 

MA  FUTURE 243 

MY  NEIGHBOUR'S  WIFE!      ...  244 

ARCADY 246 

A  KIND  PROVIDENCE 247 


NOTES, 251 


POEMS  OF  FREDERICK 
LOCKER. 


THE  OLD  CRADLE. 

AND    this  was    your    Cradle?      Why, 

surely,  my  Jenny, 
Such  cosy  dimensions  go  clearly  to 

show 

You  were  an  exceedingly  small  picka- 
ninny 

Some  nineteen  or  twenty  short  sum- 
mers ago. 

Your  baby-days  flow'd  in  a  much-trou- 
bled channel ; 

I  see  you,  as  then,  in  your  impotent 
strife, 


8   POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

A  tight  little  bundle  of  wailing  and  flan- 
nel, 

Perplex'd  with  the  newly-found  fardel 
of  Life. 

To  hint  at  an  infantile  frailty's  a  scan- 
dal; 

Let  bygones   be  bygones,  for   some- 
body knows 
It  was  bliss  such  a  Baby  to  dance  and  to 

dandle, — 

Your  cheeks  were  so  dimpled,  so  rosy 
your  toes. 

Ay,  here  is  your  Cradle  ;  and  Hope,  a 

bright  spirit, 
With  Love  now  is  watching  beside  it, 

I  know. 
They  guard  the  wee  nest  it  was  yours  to 

inherit 

Some  nineteen  or  twenty  short  sum- 
mers ago. 

It  is  Hope  gilds  the  future,  Love  wel- 
comes it  smiling ; 


THE  OLD   CRADLE.  9 

Thus  wags   this  old  world,  therefore 

stay  not  to  ask, 

"  My  future  bids  fair,  is  my  future  be- 
guiling ?  " 

If  mask'd,  still  it  pleases— then  raise 
not  its  mask. 

Is  Life  a  poor  coil  some  would  gladly  be 

doffing  ? 
He    is    riding    post-haste   who    their 

wrongs  will  adjust ; 
For  at  most  'tis  a  footstep  from  cradle 

to  coffin — 

From  a  spoonful  of  pap  to  a  mouthful 
of  dust. 

Then  smile  as   your  future  is  smiling, 

my  Jenny  ; 
I  see  you,  except  for  those  infantine 

woes, 
Little   changed   since  you  were   but   a 

small  pickaninny — 
Your  cheeks  were  so  dimpled,  so  rosy 
your  toes ! 


10  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Ay,  here  is  your  Cradle,  much,  much 

to  my  liking, 

Though  nineteen  or  twenty  long  win- 
ters have  sped. 
Hark !  As  I'm  talking  there's  six  o'clock 

striking, — 

It  is  time  JENNY'S  BABY  should  be  in 
its  bed. 

1855. 


PICCADILLY. 

Minnie,  in  her  hand  a  sixpence, 

Toddled  off"  to  buy  some  butter 
( Minnie'1  s  pinafore  was  spotless} 

Back  she  brought  it  to  the  gutter  ; 
Gleeful,  radiant,  as  she  thus  did, 
Proud  to  be  so  largely  trusted. 

One,  two,  three  small  steps  she'd  taken 

Blissfully  came  little  Minnie  ; 
When,  poor  bantling- !  down  she  tumbled, 

Daubed  her  hands,  and  face,  and  pinny, 
Dropping,  too,  the  little  slut,  her 
Pat  of  butter  in  the  gutter. 

Never  creep  back  so  despairing — 

Dry  those  eyes,  my  little  fairy  : 
Most  of  us  start  off  in  high  glee, 

Many  come  back  "quite  contrairy" 
Pve  mourn*  d  sixpences  in  scores  too, 
Damaged  hopes  and  pinafores  too. 

A  SKETCH  IN  SEVEN  DIALS. 

PICCADILLY!  Shops,  palaces,  bustle, 
and  breeze, 

The  whirring  of  wheels,  and  the  mur- 
mur of  trees  ; 

By  night  or  by  day,  whether  noisy  or 
stilly, 

Whatever  my  mood  is,  I  love  Piccadilly. 


12  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Wet  nights,  when  the  gas  on  the  pave- 
ment is  streaming, 

And  young  Love  is  watching,  and  old 
Love  is  dreaming, 

And  Beauty  is  whirling  to  conquest, 
where  shrilly 

Cremona  makes  nimble  thy  toes,  Picca- 
dilly ! 

Bright  days,  when  a  stroll  is  my  after- 
noon wont, 

And  I  meet  all  the  people  I  do  know,  or 
don't  :— 

Here  is  jolly  old  Brown,  and  his  fair 
daughter  Lillie — 

No  wonder  some  Pilgrims  affect  Picca- 
dilly ! 

See  yonder  pair  riding,  how  fondly  they 
saunter, 

She  smiles  on  her  poet,  whose  heart's  in 
a  canter ! 

Some  envy  her  spouse,  and  some  covet 
her  filly, 

He  envies  them  both, — he's  an  ass,  Pic- 
cadilly ! 


PICCADILLY.  13 

Were  I  such  a  bride,  with  a  slave  at  my 
feet, 

I  would  choose  me  a  house  in  my  fa- 
vourite street ; 

Yes  or  no — I  would  carry  my  point, 
willy-nilly  : 

If  "  no,"— pick  a  quarrel;  if  "  yes,"- 
Piccadilly  ! 

From    Primrose     balcony,    long     ages 

ago, 
"Old  Q."  sat  at  gaze, — who  now  passes 

below  ? 
A  frolicsome  statesman, — the  Man  of  the 

Day; 
A    laughing    philosopher,    gallant    and 

gay; 

Never  darling  of  fortune  more  manfully 
trod, 

Full  of  years,  full  of  fame,  and  the 
world  at  his  nod  : 

Can  the  thought  reach  his  heart,  and 
then  leave  it  more  chilly — 

"  Old  P.  or  Old  Q.,— I  must  quit  Picca- 
dilly "  ? 


14    POEMS   OF   FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

Life    is    chequer'd  ;     a    patchwork    of 

smiles  and  of  frowns  ; 
We  value  its  ups,  let  us  muse  on  its 

downs  ; 
There's  a  side  that  is  bright,  it  will  then 

turn  us  t'other, 
One  turn,  if  a  good  one,  deserves  yet 

another. 
These  downs  are  delightful,  these  ups 

are  not  hilly, — 
Let  us  turn  one  more  turn  ere  we  quit 

Piccadilly. 

1856. 


THE      OLD      GOVERNMENT 
CLERK. 

(OLD  STYLE.) 

A  kindly,  good  man,  quite  a  stranger  to  fame, 
His  heart  still  is  green,  thd  his  head  shows  a 
hoar  lock  ; 

Perhaps  his  particular  star  is  to  blame, — 
It  may  be  he  never  took  Time  by  the  forelock. 

WE  knew  an  old  scribe,  it  was  "  once 

on  a  time," 

An  era  to  set  sober  datists  despair- 
ing : 
Then  let  them  despair  t     Darby  sat  in  a 

chair, 

Near  the  Cross  that  gave  name  to  the 
village  of  Charing. 

Though  silent  and  lean,  Darby  was  not 

malign, 

What  hair  he  had  left  was  more  silver 
than  sable ; 


l6    POEMS   OF    FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

He  had  also  contracted  a  curve  in  the 

spine, 

From  bending  too  constantly  over  a 
table. 

His  pay  and  expenditure,  quite  in  ac- 
cord, 
Were  both  on  the  strictest  economy 

founded  ; 

His  rulers  were  known  as  the  Sealing- 
wax  Board, 

— They  ruled    where   red   tape    and 
snug  places  abounded. 

In  his  heart  he  look'd  down  on  this  dig- 
nified knot ; 
And  why?   The  forefather  of  one  of 

these  senators — 
A  rascal  concern'd  in  the  Gunpowder 

Plot- 
Had  been  barber-surgeon  to  Darby's 
progenitors. 

Poor    fool,    is    not    life    a    vagary    of 
luck? 


THE  OLD  GOVERNMENT  CLERK.   \J 

For  thirty  long  years— of  genteel  des- 
titution— 

He'd   been  writing  despatches  ;    which 
means  he  had  stuck 

Some  heads  and  some  tails  to  much 
circumlocution. 


This    would    seem    rather  weary  and 

dreary  ;  but,  no  ! 
Though  strictly  inglorious,  his   days 

were  quiescent. 
His  red-tape  was  tied  in  a  true -lover's 

bow 

Every  night  when  returning  to  Rose- 
mary Crescent. 

There  Joan   meets    him    smiling,    the 

young  ones  are  there  ; 
His  coming  is  bliss  to  the  half-dozen 

wee  things  ; 
The  dog  and  the  cat  have  a  greeting  to 

spare, 

And  Phyllis,  neat-handed,  is   laying 
the  tea-things. 


18  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

East   wind,  sob   eerily !     Sing,   kettle, 

cheerily ! 
Baby's  abed,  but  its  father  will  rock 

it;— 
His  little  ones  boast  their  permission  to 

toast 
That  cake  the  good  fellow  brings  home 

in  his  pocket. 

This  greeting  the  silent  old  Clerk  under- 
stands, 
Now  his  friends  he  can  love,  had  he 

foes  he  could  mock  them  ; 
So  met,  so  surrounded,  his  bosom  ex- 
pands,— 

Some  hearts  have  more  need  of  such 
homes  to  unlock  them. 

And  Darby  at  least  is  resign'd  to  his  lot ; 
And  Joan,  rather  proud  of  the  sphere 

he's  adorning, 

Has  well-nigh  forgotten  that  Gunpow- 
der Plot,— 

And  he  won't  recall  it  till  ten  the  next 
morning. 


THE  OLD  GOVERNMENT  CLERK.   19 

A  day  must  be  near  when,  in   pitiful 

case, 
He  will  drop  from  his  Branch,  like  a 

fruit  more  than  mellow  ; 
Is  he  yet  to  be  found  in  his  usual  place  ? 
Or   is    he   already   forgotten?     poor 
fellow ! 

If  still  at  his  duty  he  soon  will  arrive  ; 
He  passes  this  turning  because  it  is 

shorter  ; 
He  always  is  here  as  the  clock's  going 

five 

—Where   is  he?     ...     Ah,   it  is 
chiming  the  quarter ! 

1856. 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF   PALL  MALL. 

Her  eyes  and  her  hair 

Are  superb  ; 
She  stands  in  despair 

On  the  kerb. 
Quick,  stranger,  advance 

To  her  aid  : — 
She's  across,  with  a  glance 

You're  repaid. 
She's  fair,  and  you're  tall, 

fal-lal-la  !— 
What  ivillconte  of  it  all? 

Chi  lo  sa  ! 

CUPID  ON  THE  CROSSING. 

MY  little  friend,  so  small,  so  neat, 
Whom  years  ago  I  used  to  meet 

In  Pall  Mall  daily, 
How  cheerily  you  tript  away 
To  work,  it  might  have  been  to  play, 

You  tript  so  gaily. 

And  Time  trips  too  !   This  moral  means 
You  then  were  midway  in  the  teens 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF    PALL  MALL.      21 

That  I  was  crowning  ; 
We  never  spoke,  but  when  I  smiled 
At  morn  or  eve,  I  know,  dear  Child, 

You  were  not  frowning. 

Each  morning  that  we  met,  I  think 
One  sentiment  us  two  did  link, 

Not  joy,  nor  sorrow  ; 
And  then  at  eve,  experience-taught, 
Our  hearts  were  lighter  for  the  thought, — 

We  meet  to-morrow  / 

And  you  were  poor,  so  poor  !  and  why  ? 
How  kind  to  come,  it  was  for  my 

Especial  grace  meant ! 
Had  you  a  chamber  near  the  stars, — 
A  bird, — some  treasured  plants  in  jars. 

About  your  casement  ? 

Often  I  wander  up  and  down, 

When  morning  bathes  the  silent  town 

In  dewy  glory 

Perhaps,  unwitting,  I  have  heard 
Your  thrilling-toned  canary-bird 

From  that  third  story. 


22  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

I've   seen   some  change  since  last  we 

met — 
A  patient  little  seamstress  yet, 

On  small  wage  striving, 
Have  you  a  Lilliputian  spouse  ? 
And    do    you     dwell    in    some     doll's 

house  ? — 
Is  baby  thriving  ? 

My  heart  grows  chill !     Can  soul  like 

thine, 
Weary  of  this  dear  World  of  mine, 

Have  loosed  its  fetter, 
To  find  a  world,  whose  promised  bliss 
Is  better  than  the  best  of  this  ?— 

And  is  it  better  ? 

Sometimes  to  Pall  Mall  I  repair, 
And  see  the  damsels  passing  there  ; 

But  if  I  try  to     .     .     . 
To    get    one    glance,    they    look    dis- 
creet, 
As  though    they'd    some    one  else  to 

meet : — 
As  have  not  /  too  ? 


THE   PILGRIMS  OF   PALL  MALL.      23 

Yet  still  I  often  think  upon 

Our  many  meetings,  come  and  gone, 

July — December ! 
Now  let  us  make  a  tryst,  and  when, 
Dear  little  soul,  we  meet  again, 
In  some  serener  sphere,  why  then 

Thy  friend  remember. 

1856. 


MANY  YEARS  AFTER. 

I  SAW  some  books  exposed  for  sale- 
Some     dear,    and    some — drama    and 
tale — 

As  dear  as  any  : 
A  few,  perhaps  more  orthodox 
Or  torn,  were  tumbled  in  a  box — 

"  All  these  a  penny." 

I  open'd  one  at  hazard,  but 

Its  leaves  tho'  soil'd  were  still  uncut ; 

And  yet  before 
I'd  read  a  page,  I  felt  indeed 
A  wish  to  cut  that  leaf,  and  read 

Some  pages  more. 

A  poet  sang  of  what  befel 
When,  years   before,  he'd  paced   Pall 
Mall; 


MANY  YEARS  AFTER.  25 

While  walking  thus — ' 
A  boy— he'd  met  a  maiden.     (Then 
Fair  women  all  were  brave,  and  men 

Were  virtuous  !) 

They  oft  had  met,  he  wonder'd  why  ; 
He  praised  her  sprightly  bearing.     (I 

Believe  he  meant  it  :) 
No  word  had  pass'd,  but  if  he  smiled 
Her    eyes    had    seem'd   to    say    (poor 
child  !) 

"  1 don't  resent  it." 

And  then  this  poet  mused  and  grieved, 
And  spoke  some  kindly  words,  relieved 

By  kindlier  jest  : 

Then  he,  with  sad,  prophetic  glance, 
Bethought  him  she,  ere  then,  perchance, 

Had  found  her  rest. 

Then  I  was  minded  how  my  Joy 
Sometimes  had  told  me  of  a  boy 

With  curly  head— 

"  You  know,"   she'd  laugh   (she    then 
was  well !) 


26  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

"  I  used  to  meet  him  in  Pall  Mall— 

Ere  I  was  wed." 
And   then,   in  fun,   she'd  vow  "  Good 

lack, 
I'll  go  there  now,  and  fetch  thee  back 

At  least  a  curl !  " 

She  once  was  here,  now  she  is  gone  ! — 
And  so,  you  see,  my  wife  was  yon 

Bright  little  girl. 

I  am  not  one  for  shedding  tears— 
That  boy's  now  dead,  or  bow'd  with 

years — 

But  see — sometimes 
He'd  thought  of  Her  / — that  made  me 

weep  ; 

That's  why  I  bought  and  why  I  keep 
His  book  of  rhymes. 


TEMPORA  MUTANTUR  ! 

He  dropt  a  tear  on  Susan's  bier, 

He  see nf  d  a  most  despairing  swain  f 
But  bluer  sky  brought  newer  tie, 

And — would  he  ivisA  her  back  again  ? 
The  moments  fly,  and  when  ive  die, 

WillPhilly  Thistletop  complain  ? 
She'll  cry  and  sigh,  and — dry  her  eye, 

And  let  herself  be  ivotfd  again. 

A  KIND  PROVIDENCE. 

YES,  here,  once  more  a  traveller, 

I  find  the  Angel  Inn, 
Where  landlord,  maids,  and   serving- 
men 

Receive  me  with  a  grin  : 
Surely  they  can't  remember  Me, 

My  hair  is  grey  and  scanter  ; 
I'm  changed,  so  changed  since  I  was 
here — 

O  tempora  mutantur  / 

The  Angel's  not  much  alter'd  since 
The  happy  month  of  June, 


28    POEMS  OF   FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

That  brought  me  here  with  Pamela 

To  spend  our  honeymoon. 
Ah  me,  I  even  recollect 

The  shape  of  this  decanter  ! — 
We've  since  been  both  much  put  about — 

0  temper  a  mutantur  ! 

Ay,   there's    the    clock,   and    looking- 
glass 

Reflecting  me  again ; 
She  vow'd  her  Love  was  very  fair, 

1  see  I'm  very  plain. 

And  there's  that  daub  of  Prince  Leeboo  : 
'Twas  Pamela's  fond  banter 

To  fancy  it  resembled  me — 
O  tempera  mutantur  ! 

The  curtains  have  been  dyed  ;  but  there, 

Unbroken,  is  the  same, 
The  very  same  crack'd  pane  of  glass 

On  which  I  scratch'd  her  name. 
Yes,  there's  her  tiny  flourish  still ; 

It  used  to  so  enchant  her 
To  link  two  happy  names  in  one — 

O  temper  a  mutantur  ! 


TEMPORA   MUTANTUR  !  29 

What  brought  this  pilgrim  here  ?  and 
why 

Was  Pamela  away  ? 
It  may  be  she  had  found  her  grave, 

Or  he  had  found  her  gay. 
The  fairest  fade,  the  best  of  men 

Have  met  with  a  supplanter  ; 
I  wish  that  I  could  like  this  cry 

Of  tempora  mutantur  1 

1856. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 

THE  ORANGE. 

" At  Brighton,  just  a  year  ago. 

As  I  mas  leaving  maison  MUTTON, 
My  scarf  got  caught,  it  vex>d  me  so, 

On  that  tall  Captain  Rosens  button. 
/  thought  he'd  think  me  too  inane 

And  awkward  that  September  sunny. 
And  now  September* s  come  again  I 
And  now  we're  married  ! — airft  it  funny  ?" 

EXTRACT  FROM  MRS.  ROSE'S  DIARY. 

IT  ripen'd  by  the  river  banks, 

Where,    mask    and    moonlight    aid- 
ing, 
Dons  Bias  and  Juan  play  their  pranks, 

Dark  Donnas  serenading. 

By  Moorish  damsel  it  was  pluck'd, 
Beneath  the  golden  day  there  ; 

By  swain  'twas  then  in  London  suck'd— - 
Who  flung  the  peel  away  there. 


CIRCUMSTANCE.  31 

He  could  not  know  in  Pimlico, 

As  little  she  in  Seville, 
That  7  should  reel  upon  that  peel, 

And — wish  them  at  the  devil. 

1856. 


ARCADIA. 

Yes,  Fortune  deserves  to  be  chidden. 

It  is  a  coincidence  queer — 
Whenever  one  ivants  to  be  hidden 

Some  blockhead  is  sure  to  appear  ! 

THE  healthy-wealthy-wise  affirm 
That  early  birds  obtain  the  worm, — 

(The  worm  rose  early  too  !) 
Who  scorns  his  couch  should  glean  by 

rights 
A  world  of  pleasant  sounds  and  sights 

That  vanish  with  the  dew. 

Bright  Phosphor,   from  his   watch  re- 
leased, 
Now  fading  from  the  purple  east, 

As  morning  gets  the  stronger  ; — 
The  comely  cock  that  vainly  strives 
To  crow  from  sleep  his  drowsy  wives, 

Who  would  be  dozing  longer. 


ARCADIA.  33 

Uxorious  Chanticleer — And  hark 
Upraise  thine  eyes,  and  find  the  lark, 

The  matutine  musician 
Who  heavenward    soars    on    rapture's 

wings, 
Sought,  yet  unseen — who  mounts  and 

sings 
In  musical  derision. 

From  sea-girt  pile,  where  nobles  dwell, 
A  daughter  waves  her  sire  Farewell 

Across  the  sunlit  water  : 
All  these  were  heard  or  seen  by  one 
Who  stole  a  march  upon  that  sun 

And  then  upon  that  daughter. 

This  dainty  maid,  the  country's  pride, 
A  white  lamb  trotting  at  her  side, 

Had  tript  it  through  the  park  ; 
A  fond  and  gentle  foster-dam, 
Maybe  she  slumber'd  with  her  lamb, 

Thus  rising  with  the  lark. 

The  lambkin  frisk'd,  the  lady  fain 
Would   coax  him   back,  she  calFd   in 
vain, 


34    POEMS  OF   FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

The  rebel  proved  unruly  ; 
The  sun  came  streaming  o'er  the  lake  ;— 
One  followed  for  the  maid's  dear  sake, 

A  happy  fellow  truly. 

The  maid  gave  chase,  the  lambkin  ran 
As  only  woolly  truant  can 

Who  never  felt  a  crook  ; 
But  stayed  at  length,  as  if  disposed 
To  drink,  where  tawny  sands  disclosed 

The  margin  of  a  brook. 

His  mistress,  who  had  followed  fast, 
Cried,  "  Little  rogue,  you're  caught  at 

last ; 

You've  made  me  lose  my  shoe  !  " 
She  then  the  wanderer  convey'd 
Where    kindly    shrubs,    in    branching 

shade, 
Were  screen  and  shelter  too  : 

And  timidly  she  glanced  around, 
All  fearful  lest  the  slightest  sound 

Might  mortal  footfall  be  ; 
Then  shrinkingly  she  stept  aside 


ARCADIA.  35 

One  moment — and  her  garter  tied 
The  truant  to  a  tree. 

Perhaps  the  world  would  like  to  know 
The  hue  of  this  enchanting  bow, 

And  if  'twere  silk  or  laced  ; 
No,  not  from  him  !     Be  pleased  to  think 
It  might  be  either — blue  or  pink  ; 

'Twas  tied  with  maiden  taste. 

Suffice  it  that  the  child  was  fair 
As  Una,  blythe,  with  golden  hair, 

And  come  of  high  degree  ; 
And  though  her  feet  were   pure   from 

stain, 
She  turned  her  to  the  brook  again, 

And  laved  them  dreamingly. 

Awhile  she  sat  in  maiden  mood, 
And  watched    the    shadows    from  the 
wood, 

That  varied  on  the  stream  ; 
And  as  each  pretty  foot  she  dipp'd, 
The  little  waves  rose  crystal-lipp'd 

In  welcome,  as  'twould  seem. 


36  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Yet  reveries  are  fleeting  things, 
That  come  and  go  on  whimsy  wings  ; 

As  kindly  fancy  taught  her, 
The  Fair  her  tender  day-dream  nursed  ; 
But  when  the  light-blown  bubble  burst, 

She  wearied  of  the  water  ; 

Betook  her  to  the  spot  where,  yet, 
Safe  tether'd  lay  her  captured  pet, 

To  roving  tastes  a  martyr  ; 
But  all  at  once  she  spied  a  change, 
And    scream'd     (it    seem'd     so    very 
strange  !) — 

Cried  Echo,  Where's  my  garter  f  .  . 

The  Lady  led  her  lambkin  home  ! 
Maybe   she  thought,  "No  more  we'll 
roam 

At  peep  of  day  together  ;  " 
Well,  if  they  do,  or  if  they  don't, 
It's  pretty  clear  that  roam  she  won't 

Without  an  extra  tether. 

A    pure    white    stone    will    mark   this 
morn  j 


ARCADIA.  37 

He  wears  a  prize,  one  gladly  worn, 

Love's  gage,  though  not  intended  ; 
And  let  him  wear  it  near  his  heart, 
Till  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars  depart, 
And  chivalry  has  ended. 

Dull  World  !     He  now  resigns  to  you 
The  tinsel  star,  and  ribbon  blue, 

That  pride  for  folly  barters  : 
He'll  bear  his  cross  amid  your  jars, 
His  ribbon  prize,  and  thank  his  stars 

He  does  not  crave  your  garters. 

1849. 


THE  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR. 

The  old,  old  tale  !  ay,  there's  the  smart : 
Her  heart,  or  what  she  calTd  her  heart, 

Was  hard  as  granite  : 
Who  breaks  a  heart  and  then  omits 
To  gather  up  the  broken  bits. 

Is  heartless,  Janet. 

You  shake  your  saucy  curls,  and  vow 
I  build  no  airy  castles  now ; 
You  smile,  and  you  are  thinking  too, 
He's  nothing  else  on  earth  to  do. 

It  needs  romance,  my  Lady  Fair, 
To  build  a  Castle  in  the  Air  : 
Ethereal  brick,  and  rainbow  beam, 
The  gossamer  of  fancy's  dream  ; 
Much,  too,  the  architect  may  lack, 
Who  labours  in  the  Zodiac, 
To  rear  what  I,  from  chime  to  chime, 
Attempted  once  upon  a  time. 


THE   CASTLE   IN   THE   AIR.  39 

My  Castle  was  a  gay  retreat 

In  Air,  that  rather  gusty  shire, 
A  cherub's  model  country  seat, — 

Could  model  cherub  such  require. 
Nor  twinge  nor  tax  existence  tortured, 
Even  the  cherub  spared  my  orchard  ! 
No  worm  destroyed  the  gourd  I  planted, 
And  showers  came  when  rain  was  wanted. 
I  own'd  a  tract  of  purple  mountain, 
A  sweet  mysterious  haunted  fountain, 
A  terraced  lawn,  a  summer  lake, 

By  sun-  or  moon-beam  always  burn  • 

ish'd  ; 
And  then  my  cot,  by  some  mistake, 

Unlike  most    cots,   was   neatly    fur- 

nish'd.— 

A  trellis'd  porch,  a  pictured  hall, 
A  Hebe  laughing  from  the  wall ; 

Vases,  Etruscan  and  Cathay  ; 
While  under  arms  and  armour  wreath' d 
In  trophied  guise,  the  marble  breathed— 

A  peering  faun — a  startled  fay. 

On  silken  cushion,  laced  and  pearl'd, 
A  shaggy  pet  from  Skye  was  curl'd  ; 


40    POEMS   OF    FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

While,  drowsy-eyed,  would  dosing  swing 
A  parrot  in  his  golden  ring. 

All  this  I  saw  one  happy  day, 
And  more  than  now  I  care  to  name  ; 

Here,  lately  shut,  that  work-box  lay, 
There   stood   your    own    embroidery 
frame. 

And  over  this  piano  bent 

A  Form  from  some  pure  region  lent. 

Her  auburn  tresses  darkly  shone 

In  clusters,  lovely  as  your  own  ; 

And  as  her  fingers  touch'd  the  keys, 

How  strangely  they  resembled  these  ! 

Yes,  you,  you  only,  Lady  Fair, 

Adorn'd  a  Castle  in  the  Air, 

Where  Life,  without  the  least  foundation 

Became  a  charming  occupation. 

We  heard  with  much  sublime  disdain 

The  far-off  thunder  of  Cockaigne  ; 

And  saw  through  rifts  of  silver  cloud 

The  rolling  smoke  that  hid  the  crowd. 

With  souls  released  from   earthly  tether 

We  hymn'd  the  tender  moon  together. 


THE   CASTLE   IN   THE   AIR.  4! 

Our  sympathy  from  night  to  noon 
Rose  crescent  with  that  crescent  moon  ; 
The  night  was  briefer  than  the  song, 
And  happy  as  the  day  was  long. 
We  lived  and  loved  in  cloudless  climes, 
And  died  (in  verse)  a  thousand  times ! 

Yes,  you,  you  only,  Lady  Fair, 
Adorn'd  my  Castle  in  the  Air. 
Now,  tell  me,  could  you  dwell  content 
In  such  a  baseless  tenement  ? 
Say,  could  so  delicate  a  flower 
Exist  in  such  a  breezy  bower  ? 
Because,  if  you  would  settle  in  it, 
'Twere  built  for  love  in  half  a  minute. 

What's  love?     Why  love  (for  two)   at 

best 

Is  only  a  delightful  jest ; 
But  not  so  nice  for  one  or  three, — 
I  only  wish  you'd  jest  with  me. 

You  shake  your  head  and  wonder  why 

A  denizen  of  dear  Mayfair 
Should  be  so  silly  as  to  try 


42  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

And  build  a  Castle  in  the  Air. 
"  I've  music,  books,  and  all,"  you  say, 
"  To  make  the  gravest  lady  gay. 
I'm  told  my  essays  mark  research, 
My  sketches  have  endow'd  a  church  ; 
I've  partners  who  have  brilliant  parts— 
I've  lovers  who  have  broken  hearts. 
Poor  Polly  would  not  care  to  fly, 
And  Mop,  you  know,  was  born  in  Skye. 
To  realise  your  tete-a-tete 
Might  jeopardise  a  giddy  pate ; 
Indeed,  my  much  devoted  vassal, 
I'm  sorry  that  you've  built  your  Castle  !  " 

The  lady's  smile  showed  no  remorse, — 
"  My  worthless  toy  has  lost  its  gild- 
ing," 
I  murmur'd  with  pathetic  force, 

"  And  here's  an  end  of  castle-build* 

ing;" 

Then  strode  away  in  mood  morose 
To  blame  the  Sage  of  Careless  Close  ; 
He  trifled  with  my  tale  of  sorrow, — 
"  What's   marr'd    to-day   is   made   to- 
morrow ; 


THE  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR.  43 

Romance  can  roam  not  far  from  home, 
Knock  gently,  she  must  answer  soon  ; 

I'm  sixty-five,  and  yet  I  strive 
To  hang  my  garland  on  the  moon." 

1848. 


A  WISH. 

To  the  south  of  the  church,  and  beneath 

yonder  yew, 

A  pair  of  child  lovers  I've  seen  ; 
More  than  once  were  they  there,  and 

the  years  of  the  two 
When  united,  might  number  thirteen. 

They  sat  by  a  grave  that  had  never  a 

stone 

The  name  of  the  dead  to  determine  ; 
It  was  Life  paying  Death  a  brief  visit, 

— a  known 
And  a  notable  text  for  a  sermon. 

They  tenderly  prattled;    oh  what  did 

they  say  ? 

The  turf  on  that  hillock  was  new. 
Little  Friends,  could  ye  know  aught  of 

death  or  decay  ? 
Could  the  dead  be  regardful  of  you  ? 


A  WISH.  45 

I    wish    to    believe,  and   believe   it    I 

must, 

That  there  her  loved  father  was  laid  : 
I   wish  to  believe — I   will    take   it  on 

trust — 
That  father  knew  all  that  they  said. 

My  Own,  you  are  five,  very  nearly  the 

age 

Of  that  poor  little  fatherless  child, 
And  some  day  a  true-love  your  heart 

will  engage, 

When  on  earth  I  my  last  may  have 
smiled. 

Then  come  to  my  grave,  like  a  good  lit- 
tle lass, 

Where'er  it  may  happen  to  be  ; 
And  if  any  daisies  should  peer  through 

the  grass, 
Be  sure  they  are  kisses  from  me. 

And  place  not  a  stone  to  distinguish  my 

name, 
For  stranger  and  gossip  to  see  ; 


46  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

But  come  with  your  lover,  as  these  lov- 
ers came, 
And  talk  to  him  sweetly  of  me. 

And  while  you  are  smiling,  your  father 

will  smile 

Such  a  dear  little  daughter  to  have  ; 
But  mind, — oh  yes,  mind  you  are  happy 

the  while — 
I  wish  you  to  visit  my  grave. 

1856. 


GERALDINE  GREEN. 


THE  SERENADE. 

If  pathos  should  thy  bosom  stir 

To  tears  more  sweet  than  laughter^ 

Then  bless  its  kind  interpreter^ 
And  love  hint  ever  after  J 

LIGHT  slumber  is  quitting 

The  eyelids  it  prest ; 
The  fairies  are  flitting, 

Who  charm'd  thee  to  rest. 
Where  night  dews  were  falling, 

Now  feeds  the  wild  bee  ; 
The  starling  is  calling, 

My  darling,  for  thee. 

The  wavelets  are  crisper 
That  thrill  the  shy  fern  ; 

The  leaves  fondly  whisper, 
"  We  wait  thy  return." 


48  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Arise  then,  and  hazy 
Distrust  from  thee  fling, 

For  sorrows  that  crazy 
To-morrows  may  bring. 

A  vague  yearning  smote  us, 
But  wake  not  to  weep  ; 

My  bark,  Love,  shall  float  us 
Across  the  still  deep, 

To  isles  where  the  lotus 

Erst  lulled  thee  to  sleep. 
1861. 

ii. 


MY   LIFE   IS   A 


Fair  Emma  mocks  my  trials^ 
She  pokes  her  jokes  in  Sevenoaks 
At  me  in  Seven  Dials. — 

AT  Worthing,  an  exile  from  Geraldine 

G , 

How  aimless,  how  wretched  an  exile  is 

he! 
Promenades  are  not  even  prunella  and 

leather 
To  lovers,    if   lovers    can't  foot   them 

together. 


GERALDINE  GREEN.  49 

He  flies  the  parade,  by  the  ocean  he 
stands  ; 

He  traces  a  "  Geraldine  G."  on  the 
sands  ; 

Only  "G.!"  though  her  loved  patro- 
nymic is  "  Green," — 

"  I  will  not  betray  thee,  my  own  Geral- 
dine." 

The  fortunes  of  men  have  a  time  and  a 

tide, 
And   Fate,  the   old  Fury,  will  not  be 

denied  ; 
That  name  was,  of  course,  soon  wiped 

out  by  the  sea, — 
She  jilted  the  exile,  did  Geraldine  G. 

They  meet,  but  they  never  have  spoken 

since  that ; 
He  hopes  she  is  happy — he  knows  she 

is  fat  ; 
SAe,  wooed  on  the  shore,  now  is  wed  in 

the  Strand, — 
And  7— it  was  I  wrote  her  name  on  the 

sand. 
1854. 


VANITY  FAIR. 

"  VANITAS  vanitatum"  has  rung  in  the 

ears 
Of  gentle  and  simple  for  thousands  of 

years  ; 
The  wail  still  is  heard,  yet  its  notes  never 

scare 
Either    simple   or  gentle   from   Vanity 

Fair. 

I  often  hear  people  abusing  it,  yet 
There  the  young  go  to  learn  and  the  old 

to  forget  ; 
The  mirth  may  be  feigning,  the  sheen 

may  be  glare, 
But  the  gingerbread's  gilded  in  Vanity 

Fair. 

Old  Dives  there  rolls  in  his  chariot,  but 
mind 


VANITY   FAIR.  51 

Atra  Cur  a  is  up  with  the  lackeys  be- 
hind ; 

Joan  trudges  with  Jack, — are  the  Sweet- 
hearts aware 

Of  the  trouble  that  waits  them  in  Vanity 
Fair? 

We  saw  them  all  go,  and  we  something 

may  learn 
Of  the  harvest  they  reap  when  we  see 

them  return. 
The  tree  was  enticing,  its  branches  are 

bare,— 
Heigho  for  the  promise  of  Vanity  Fair. 

That   stupid  old    Dives,   once    honest 

enough, 
His  honesty  sold  for  star,  ribbon,  and 

stuff; 
And  Joan's  pretty  face  has  been  clouded 

with  care 
Since  Jack  bought  her  ribbons  at  Vanity 

Fair. 

Contemptible  Dives!  too  credulous 
Joan! 


52    POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Yet  we  all  have  a   Vanity  Fair  of  our 

own  ; 
My  son,  you  have  yours,  but  you  need 

not  despair — 
I  own  I've  a  weakness  for  Vanity  Fair. 

Philosophy    halts — wise    counsels     are 

vain, 
We    go,  we    repent,  we    return    there 

again ; 
To-night  you  will  certainly  meet  with  us 

there — 
So  come  and  be  merry  in  Vanity  Fair. 

1852. 


BRAMBLE-RISE. 


These  days  were  soon  the  days  of  yore  ; 

Six  summers  pass,  and  then 
That  musing  man  would  see  once  more 

The  fountain  in  the  glen. 

THE  RUSSET  PITCHER. 


WHAT  changes  meet  my  wistful  eyes 
In  quiet  little  Bramble-Rise, 

The  pride  of  all  the  shire  ; 
How  altered  is  each  pleasant  nook  ; — 
And  used  the  dumpy  church  to  look 

So  dumpy  in  the  spire  ? 

This  village  is  no  longer  mine  ; 
And   though  the   Inn  has  changed  its 
sign, 

The  beer  may  not  be  stronger  ; 
The  river,  dwindled  by  degrees, 
Is  now  a  brook,  the  cottages 

Are  cottages  no  longer. 


54    POEMS   OF   FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

The  mud  is  brick,  the  thatch  is  slate, 
The  pound  has  tumbled  out  of  date, 

And  all  the  trees  are  stunted  : 
Surely  these  thistles  once  grew  figs, 
These  geese  were  swans,  and  once  these 
pigs 

More  musically  grunted. 

Where   boys    and   girls   pursued   their 

sports 

A  locomotive  puffs  and  snorts, 
And  gets  my  malediction  ; 
The  turf  is  dust — the  elves  are  fled 
The  ponds  have  shrunk — and  tastes  have 

spread 
To  photograph  and  fiction. 

Ah,  there's  a  face  I  know  again, 
There's  Patty  trotting  down  the  lane 

To  fill  her  pail  with  water  ; 
Yes,  Patty  !  but  I  fear  she's  not 
The  tricksy  Pat  that  used  to  trot, 

But  Patty,— Patty's  daughter ! 

And  has  she,  too,  outlived  the  spells 
Of  breezy  hills  and  silent  dells 


BRAMBLE-RISE.  55 

Where  childhood  loved  to  ramble  ? 
Then  life  was  thornless  to  our  ken, 
And,  Bramble- Rise,  thy  hills  were  then 

A  rise  without  a  bramble. 

Whence   comes   the   change  ?     'Twere 

simply  told  ; 
For  some   grow  wise,  and   some   grow 

cold, 

And  all  feel  time  and  trouble  : 
If  life  an  empty  bubble  be, 
How  sad  for  those  who  cannot  see 
The  rainbow  in  the  bubble  ! 

And  senseless  too,  for  Madame  Fate 
Is  not  the  fickle  reprobate 

That  moody  sages  thought  her  ; 
My  heart  leaps  up,  and  I  rejoice, 
As  falls  upon  my  ear  thy  voice, 

My  little  friskful  daughter. 

Come  hither,  fairy,  perch  on  these 
Thy  most  unworthy  father's  knees, 

And  tell  him  all  about  it. 
Are  dolls  a  sham  ?     Can  men  be  base  ? 


56    POEMS   OF    FREDERICK    LOCKER. 

When  gazing  on  thy  blessed  face 
I'm  quite  prepared  to  doubt  it. 

Though  life  is  calPd  a  doleful  jaunt, 
Though  earthly  joys,  the  wisest  grant, 

Have  no  enduring  basis  ; 
It's  pleasant  in  this  lower  sphere, 
To  find  with  Puss,  my  daughter  dear, 

A  little  cool  oasis  ! 

Oh,  may'st  thou  some  day  own,  sweet 

elf, 
A  pet  just  like  thy  winsome  self, 

Her  sanguine  thoughts  to  borrow  ; 
Content  to  use  her  brighter  eyes, 
Accept  her  childish  ecstasies, — 

If  need  be,  share  her  sorrow. 

The  wisdom  of  thy  prattle  cheers 

This  heart ;  and  when,  outworn  in  years, 

And  homeward  I  am  starting, 
Lead  me,  my  darling,  gently  down 
To  life's  dim  strand  :  the  skies  may 

frown, — 

But  weep  not  for  our  parting. 
April,  1857. 


OLD  LETTERS. 

Have  sorrows  come  ?    Has  pleasure  sped  ? 

Is  earthly  bliss  an  empty  bubble  ? 
Is  some  one  dull,  or  something  dead? 

O  may  I,  mayn't  I  share  your  trouble  ? 

*  * 

Ay,  so  it  is,  and  is  it  fair? 

Poor  men  (your  elders  and  your  betters  /) 
Who  can't  look  fret  ty  in  despair ; 

Feel  quite  as  sad  about  their  letters. 

HER  LETTERS. 

OLD  letters !  wipe  away  the  tear 
For  lines  so  pale,  so  vainly  worded  ; 

A  Pilgrim  finds  his  journey  here 

Since   first  his    youthful    loins   were 
girded. 

Yes,    here    are    wails     from    Clapham 

Grove  ; 

How  could  philosophy  expect  us 
To  live  with  Dr.  Wise,  and  love 

Rice   pudding    and    the   Greek   De- 
lectus ? 


58    POEMS   OF    FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

How    strange    to    commune    with    the 

Dead! 
Dead  joys,   dead  loves  ;   and  wishes 

thwarted  : 

Here's  cruel  proof  of  friendships  fled, 
And,  sad  enough,  of  friends  departed. 

Yes,  here's  the  offer  that  I  wrote 

In  '33  to  Lucy  Diver  ; 
And  here  John  Wylie's  begging  note, — 

He  never  paid  me  back  a  stiver. 

Here's  news  from  Paternoster  Row  ; 

How  mad  I  was  when  first  I  learnt  it ! 
They  would  not  take  my  Book,  and  now 

I  wish  to  goodness  I  had  burnt  it. 

A  ghastly  bill !  "  I  disapprove." 

And  yet  She  help'd  me  to  defray  it  :— 

What  tokens  of  a  mother's  love  ! 
O  bitter  thought, — I  can't  repay  it. 

And  here's  a  score  of  notes  at  last, 
With    "Love"    and     "Dove,"    and 
"Sever,  Never"; 


OLD   LETTERS.  59 

Though  hope,   though  passion  may  be 

past, 

Their  perfume  seems — ah,  sweet   as 
ever. 

A  human  heart  should  beat  for  two, 
Whate'er  may  say  your  single  scorn- 
ers; 

And  all  the  hearths  I  ever  knew 
Had  got  a  pair  of  chimney-corners. 

See  here  a  double  violet — 
Two  locks  of  hair — A  deal  of  scandal ; 
I'll  burn  what  only  brings  regret — 
Kitty,  go,  fetch  a  lighted  candle. 

1856. 


MY   FIRST-BORN. 

Of  a  worthless  old  Block  she's  the  dearest  of  Chifa 
For  what  nonsense  she  talks  when  she  opens  he* 
lips. 

LITTLE  PITCHER. 

"HE   shan't    be   their  namesake,   the 
rather 

That  both  are  such  opulent  men  : 
His  name  shall  be  that  of  his  father, 

My  Benjamin,  shorten'd  to  Ben. 

"  Yes,  Bent  though  it  cost  him  a  portion 
In  each  of  my  relatives'  wills  : 

I  scorn  such  baptismal  extortion — 
(That    creaking    of   boots    must    be 
Squills.) 

"  It  is  clear,  though  his  means  may  be 

narrow, 

This  infant  his  Age  will  adorn  ; 
I  shall  send  him  to  Oxford  from  Har- 
row,— 
I  wonder  how  soon  he'll  be  born  !  " 


MY   FIRST-BORN.  6l 

A  spouse  thus  was  airing  his  fancies 
Below,  'twas  a  labour  of  love, 

And  was  calmly  reflecting  on  Nancy's 
More  practical  labour  above  ; 

Yet  while  it  so  pleased  him  to  ponder, 

Elated,  at  ease,  and  alone  ; 
That  pale,  patient  victim  up  yonder 

Had  budding  delights  of  her  own  : 

Sweet  thoughts,  in  their  essence  diviner 
Than  paltry  ambition  and  pelf ; 

A  cherub,  no  babe  will  be  finer  ! 
Invented  and  nursed  by  herself; 

At  breakfast,  and  dining,  and  tea-ing, 
An  appetite  naught  can  appease, 

And  quite  a  Young-Reasoning-Being 
When  call'd  on  to  yawn  and  to  sneeze. 

What   cares   that    heart,   trusting    and 
tender, 

For  fame  or  avuncular  wills  ? 
Except  for  the  name  and  the  gender, 

She's  almost  as  tranquil  as  Squills. 


62  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

That  father,  in  reverie  centred, 

Dumbfounder'd,    his    thoughts    in    a 

whirl, 
Heard    Squills,    as    the    creaking  boots 

enter'd, 
Announce  that  his  Boy  was— a  Girl. 


THE  WIDOW'S   MITE. 

A  WIDOW — she  had  only  one ! 
A  puny  and  decrepit  son  ; 

But,  day  and  night, 

Though  fretful  oft,  and  weak  and  small, 
A  loving  child,  he  was  her  all — 

The  Widow's  Mite. 

The  Widow's  Mite — ay,  so  sustain'd, 
She  battled  onward,  nor  complain'd 

Tho'  friends  were  fewer  : 
And  while  she  toil'd  for  daily  fare, 
A  little  crutch  upon  the  stair 

Was  music  to  her. 

I  saw  her  then — and  now  I  see 

That,  though  resign'd  and  cheerful,  she 

Has  sorrow'd  much  : 
She  has,  HE  gave  it  tenderly, 
Much  faith  ;  and,  carefully  laid  by, 

A  little  crutch. 
1856. 


ST.     GEORGE'S,     HANOVER 
SQUARE. 

Why  little  Di  should  throw  me  over 
I  never  knew, — /  carft  discover, 

Or  even  guess  ; 

Maybe  Smith's  lyrics  she  decided 
Were  sweeter  than  the  sweetest  I  did, — 

/  acquiesce. 

SHE  pass'd  up  the  aisle  on  the  arm  of 

her  sire, 
A  delicate  lady  in  bridal  attire, 

Fair  emblem  of  virgin  simplicity  ; 
Half  London  was  there,  and,  my  word, 

there  were  few 

That  stood  by  the  altar,  or  hid  in  a  pew, 
But  envied  Lord  Nigel's  felicity. 

Beautiful  Bride  ! — So  meek  in  thy  splen- 
dour, 

So  frank  in  thy  love,  and  its  trusting 

surrender, 

Departing  you  leave   us   the   town 
dim  ! 


ST.  GEORGE'S,  HANOVER  SQUARE.    65 

May  happiness  wing  to  thy  bower,  un- 
sought, 

And  may  Nigel,  esteeming  his  bliss  as 

he  ought, 

Prove   worthy   thy   worship, — con- 
found him ! 


A  HUMAN   SKULL. 

A   HUMAN   Skull!    I  bought  it  passing 

cheap, 

Indeed  'twas   dearer  to  its  first  em- 
ployer ! 

I  thought  mortality  did  well  to  keep 
Some  mute  memento  of  the  Old  De- 
stroyer. 

Time  was,  some   may  have  prized  its 

blooming  skin  ; 
Here   lips   were   woo'd,   perhaps,    in 

transport  tender ; 
Some   may  have   chuck'd   what  was  a 

dimpled  chin, 

And  never  had   my  doubt  about  its 
gender. 

Did  she  live  yesterday  or  ages  back  ? 
What    colour    were    the    eyes   when 
bright  and  waking  ? 


A   HUMAN   SKULL.  67 

And  were  your  ringlets  fair,  or  brown, 

or  black, 

Poor  little  head  !  that  long  has  done 
with  aching  ? 

It  may  have  held  (to  shoot  some  random 

shots) 
Thy    brains,    Eliza    Fry !     or    Baron 

Byron's  ; 
The  wits  of  Nelly  Gwynn,  or   Doctor 

Watts- 
Two  quoted  bards.    Two  philanthropic 
sirens. 

But  this  I  trust  is  clearly  understood ; 

If  man  or  woman,  if  adored  or  hated — 
Whoever  own'd  this  Skull  was  not  so 

good, 

Nor  quite  so  bad  as  many  may  have 
stated. 

(Vho  love  can  need  no  special  type  of 

Death  ; 

Death  steals  his  icy  hand  where  Love 
reposes  ; 


68  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Alas  for  love,  alas  for  fleeting  breath — 
Immortelles  bloom  with  Beauty's  bridal 
roses. 

O  true-love  mine,  what  lines  of  care  are 

these  ? 
The  heart  still  lingers  with  its  golden 

hours, 

But   fading  tints   are  on  the   chestnut- 
trees, 

And  where  is   all   that  lavish  wealth 
of  flowers  ? 

The  end  is  near.     Life  lacks  what  once 

it  gave, 
Yet   death  has   promises  that   call  for 

praises  ; 
A  very   worthless   rogue   may   dig   the 

grave, 
But  hands  unseen  will  dress  the  turf 

with  daisies. 

1860. 


TO  MY  OLD  FRIEND  POSTUMUS. 
(j.  G.) 

And,  like  yon  clocke,  when  twelve  shalle  sound 

To  call  our  soules  aivay, 
Together  may  our  hands  be  found, 

An  earnest  that  ivefraie. 

MY  Friend,  our  few  remaining  years 

Are  hastening  to  an  end, 
They  glide  away,  and  lines  are  here 

That  time  can  never  mend  ; 
Thy  blameless  life  avails  thee  not, — 

My  Friend,  my  dear  old  Friend ! 

Death  lifts  a  burthen  from  the  poor, 

And  brings  the  weary  rest, 
But  oft  from  earth's  green  orchard  trees 

The  canker  takes  our  best — 
The   Well-beloved!   she  bloom'd,   and 
now 

The  turf  is  on  her  breast. 


70  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Alas  for  love  !     This  peaceful  home  ! 

The  darling  at  my  knee  ! 
My  own  dear  wife  !  Thyself,  old  Friend  ! 

And  must  it  come  to  me, 
That  any  face  shall  fill  my  place 

Unknown  to  them  and  thee  ? 

Ay,  all  too  vainly  are  we  screen'd 

From  peril,  day  and  night ; 
Those  awful  rapids  must  be  shot, 

Our  shallop  will  be  slight ; — 
O  pray  that  then  we  may  descry 

Some  cheering  beacon-light. 


LOULOU   AND   HER   CAT. 

/ ';«  nervous  too,  I  hate  a  cat  ! 
Extremely  so  ;  but,  as  for  that, 
It  is  not  only  cat  or  rat, 
Or  haunted  room,  or  ghostly  chat, 
That  makes  my  heart  go  pit-a-J>at. 

GOOD  pastry  is  vended 

In  Cite  Fadette ; 
Maison  Pons  can  make  splendid 

Brioche  and  galette. 

M*sieu  Pons  is  so  fat  that 
He's  laid  on  the  shelf; 

Madame  had  a  cat  that 
Was  fat  as  herself. 

Long  hair,  soft  as  satin, 

A  musical  purr, 
'Gainst  the  window  she'd  flatten 

Her  delicate  fur. 


72    POEMS   OF   FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

I  drove  Lou  to  see  what 
These  worthies  were  at, — 

In  rapture,  cried  she,  "  What 
An  exquisite  cat ! 

"  What  whiskers  !     She's  purring 

All  over.     Regale 
Our  eyes,  Puss,  by  stirring 

Your  feathery  tail ! 

"  M>sieu  Pans,  will  you  sell  her  ?  " 

"  Mafemme  est  sortie, 
Your  offer  I'll  tell  her  ; 

But— will  she  ?  "  says  he. 

Yet  Pons  was  persuaded 
To  part  with  the  prize  : 

(Our  bargain  was  aided, 
My  Lou,  by  your  eyes !) 

From  his  legitime  save  him, — 

My  spouse  I  prefer, — 
For  I  warrant  his  gave  him 

Un  mauvais  quart  d'heure. 


LOULOU  AND   HER   CAT.  73 

I'm  giving  a  pleasant 

Grimalkin  to  Lou, — 
Ah,  Puss,  what  a  present 

I'm  giving  to  you  ! 


THE  NYMPH  OF  THE  WELL. 

Whoever  shall  win  you, — a  Fan  or  a  Pkcebe, 
Of  course  of  all  beauty  she  must  be  the  belle  ; 

If  at  Tunbridge  you  chance  to  fall  in  with  a  Hebe, 
You  tvill  not  fall  out  with  a  draught  from  the 
Well! 

SHE  smiled  as  she  gave  him  a  draught 

from  the  springlet, — 
O  Tunbridge,  thy  waters  are  bitter, 

alas ! 
But  love  has  an  ambush  in  dimple  and 

ringlet  ; 

"  Thy  health,  pretty  maiden  !  "     He 
emptied  the  glass. 

He  saw,  and  he  loved  her,  nor  cared 

he  to  quit  her  ; 
The     oftener    he    came    there,     the 

longer  he  stay'd  ; 

Indeed  though  the  spring  was  exceed- 
ingly bitter, 

We  found  him  eternally  pledging  the 
maid. 


THE  NYMPH  OF  THE  WELL.    75 

A  preux  chevalier,   and    but   lately   a 

cripple, 

He  met  with  his  hurt  where  a  regi- 
ment fell ; 

But  worse  was  he  wounded  when  stay- 
ing to  tipple 

A  bumper  to   "  Phoebe,  the  Nymph 
of  the  Well." 

Some  swore  he  was  old,  that  his  laurels 

were  faded, 
All  vow'd  she  was  vastly  too  nice  for 

a  nurse ; 
But  love  never  looks  on  the  matter  as 

they  did, — 

She  took  the  brave  soldier  for  better 
or  worse. 

And  here  is  the  home  of  her   fondest 

election, 
The  walls  may  be  worn,  but  the  ivy  is 

green  ; 
And  here  she  has  tenderly  twined  her 

affection 

Around  a  true  soldier  who  bled   for 
the  Queen. 


76  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

See,  yonder  he  sits,  where  the  church- 
bells  invite  us, 

What  child  is  that  spelling   the  epi- 
taphs there  ? 
'Tis  the  joy  of  his  age ;  and  may  love 

so  requite  us, 

When    time    shall    have  broken,  or 
sickness,  or  care. 

And  when  he  is  gone,  thro'  her  widow- 
hood lowly 
He'll  still  live  as  Chivalry's  Light  to 

her  son  : 
But  only  on  days  that  are  high  and  are 

holy 

She  will  show  him  the  Cross  that  her 
hero  had  won. 

So  taught,  he  will  rather  take  after  his 

father, 

And  wear  a  long   sword  to  our  ene- 
mies' loss  ; 
And  some  day  or  other   he'll  bring   to 

his  mother 
Victoria's  gift— the  Victoria  Cross  ! 


THE  NYMPH  OF  THE  WELL.    77 

And  then  will  her  darling,  like  all  good 

and  true  ones, 
Console   and   sustain  her — the  weak 

and  the  strong — 
And  some  day  or  other  two  black  eyes 

or  blue  ones 

Will  smile  on  his    path  as    he  jour- 
neys along. 


HER   QUIET  RESTING-PLACE. 

At  Susan1  s  name  the  fancy  plays 
With  chiming  thoughts  of  early  days. 

And  hearts  umvrung  : 
When  all  too  fair  our  future  smiled, 
When  she  was  Mirth's  adopted  child, 

And  I  7vas young. 

*  *  *  * 

And  summer  smiles,  but  summer  spells 
Can  never  charm  where  sorrow  dwells — 

No  maiden  fair •, 

Or  sad,  or  gay,  the  passer  sees, — 
And  still  the  much-loved  elder  trees 

Throw  shadows  there. 

HER  quiet  resting-place  is  far  away  ; 
None  dwelling  there  can  tell  you  her 

sad  story. 
The  stones  are  mute.     The  stones  could 

only  say, 

"A   humble   spirit  passed  away   to 
glory." 

She  loved  the  murmur  of  this  mighty 
town ; 


HER   QUIET   RESTING-PLACE.        79 

The  lark  rejoiced  her  from  its  lattice 

prison  ; 
A  streamlet  lulls  her  now,  the  bird  has 

flown, 
Some  dust  is  waiting  there — a  soul  has 

risen. 


No   city   smoke    to   stain   the   heather 

bells ; 
Sigh,  gentle  winds,  around  my  lone 

love  sleeping  ; — 
She  bore  her  burthen  here,  but  now  she 

dwells 

Where  scorner  never  came,  and  none 
are  weeping. 

My  name  was  falter'd  with  her  parting 

breath ; 
These  arms  were  round  my  darling  at 

the  latest ; 
All  scenes  of  death  are  woe,  but  painful 

death 

In  those  we   dearly  love  is  woe  the 
greatest. 


8o    POEMS   OF    FREDERICK    LOCKER. 

I  could  not  die  :  HE  willed  it  otherwise  ; 
My  lot  is  here,  and  sorrow,  wearing 

older, 
Weighs  down  the  heart,  but  does  not 

fill  the  eyes, — 

Even  my  friends  may  think  that  I  am 
colder. 

But  when  at  times  I  steal  away  from 

these, 

To  find  her  grave,  and  pray  to  be  for- 
given, 
And  when  I  watch  beside  her  on  my 

knees, 
I  think  I  am  a  little  nearer  heaven. 

1861. 


REPLY  TO  A  LETTER  ENCLOSING 
A  LOCK  OF  HAIR. 

She  laughed — she  climb' d  the  giddy  height ; — 

I  held  that  climber  small; 
I  even  held  her  rather  tight, 

For  fear  that  she  should  fall. 
A  dozen  girls  were  chirping  round, 

Like  five- and-tiuenty  linnets  ; — 
/  must  have  held  her,  /'//  be  bound, 

Some  five-and-tiventy  minutes. 

YES,  you  were  false,  and,  if  I'm  free, 

I  still  would  be  the  slave  of  yore  ; 
Then,  join'd,  our  years  were  thirty-three, 

And  now,— yes,  now  I'm  thirty-four. 
And  though  you  were  not  learned— well, 

I  was  not  anxious  you  should  grow 

so;— 
I  trembled  once  beneath  her  spell 

Whose  spelling  was  extremely  so-so. 

Bright  season  !  why  will  Memory 

Still    haunt    the    path    our    rambles 
took,— 


82  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

The  sparrow's  nest  that  made  you  cry, 
The  lilies  captured  in  the  brook  ? 

I'd  lifted  you  from  side  to  side, 

(You  seem'd   as  light   as   that  poor 
sparrow  ;) 

I  know  who  wish'd  it  twice  as  wide, 
I  think  you  thought  it  rather  narrow. 

Time  was,  indeed  a  little  while, 

My  pony  could  your  heart  compel ; 
And  once,  beside  the  meadow-stile, 

I  thought  you  loved  me  just  as  well ; 
I'd  kiss'd  your  cheek  ;  in  sweet  surprise 

Your    troubled    gaze     said     plainly, 

u  Should  he  ?  " 
But  doubt  soon  fled  those  daisy  eyes, — 

"  He  could  not  mean  to  vex  me,  could 
he?" 

The  brightest  eyes  are  soonest  sad, 
But  your  rose  cheek,  so  lightly  sway'd, 

Could  ripple  into  dimples  glad  ; 

For  oh,  fair  friend,  what  mirth  we 
made  ! 

The  brightest  tears  are  soonest  dried, 


REPLY  TO   A   LETTER.  83 

But  your  young  love  and  dole  were 

stable  ; 

You  wept  when  dear  old  Rover  died, 
You  wept — and  dress'd  your  dolls  in 

sable. 

As  year  succeeds  to  year,  the  more 

Imperfect  life's  fruition  seems  ; 
Our  dreams,  as  baseless  as  of  yore, 

Are  not  the  same  enchanting  dreams. 
The  girls  I  love  now  vote  me  slow  — 

How  dull  the  boys  who  once  seem'd 

witty ! 
Perhaps  I'm  growing  old,  I  know 

I'm  still  romantic,  more's  the  pity. 

Vain  the  regret — to  few,  perchance, 

Unknown,  and  profitless  to  all  : 
The  wisely-gay,  as  years  advance, 

Are  gaily-wise.     Whate'er  befall, 
We'll  laugh  at  folly,  whether  seen 

Under  a  chimney  or  a  steeple  ; 
At     yours,     at     mine  —  our     own,     I 
mean, 

As  well  as  that  of  other  people. 


84    POEMS    OF    FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

I'm  fond  of  fun,  the  mental  dew 

Where  wit,  and  truth,  and  ruth  are 

blent ; 
And  yet  I've  known  a  prig  or  two, 

Who,  wanting  all,  were  all  content ! 
To  say  I  hate  such  dismal  men 

Might  be  esteem'd  a  strong  assertion; 
If  I've  blue  devils,  now  and  then, 

I  make  them  dance  for  my  diversion. 

And  here's  your  letter  debonair — 

"  My  friend,  my  dear  old  friend  of 

yore" 
And  is  this  curl  your  daughter's  hair  ? 

I've  seen  the  Titian  tint  before. 
Are  we  the  pair  that  used  to  pass 

Long    days    beneath     the    chestnut 

shady  ? 
Then  you  were  such  a  pretty  lass — 

I'm  told  you're  now  as  fair  a  lady. 

I've  laugh'd  to  hide  the  tear  I  shed, 
As  when  the  Jester's  bosom  swells, 

And  mournfully  he  shakes  his  head, 
We  hear  the  jingle  of  his  bells. 


REPLY  TO  A   LETTER.  85 

A  jesting  vein  your  poet  vex'd, 
And  this  poor  rhyme,  the  Fates  de- 
termine, 

Without  a  parson  or  a  text, 

Has  proved  a  rather  prosy  sermon. 

1859- 


THE  BEAR  PIT. 

IN  THE  ZOOLOGICAL  GARDENS. 

It  seems  that  poor  Bruin  has  never  had  peace 
'  Tivixt  bald  men  in  Bethel,  and  ivise  men  in  grease. 

OLD  ADAGE. 

WE  liked  the  bear's  serio-comical  face, 
As   he  lolPd  with   a  lazy,  a  lumbering 

grace  ; 
Said  Slyboots  to  me  (just  as  if  she  had 

none), 
"  Papa,  let's  give  Bruin  a  bit  of  your 

bun." 

Says  I,  "  A  plum  bun  might  please  wist- 
ful old  Bruin, 

He  can't  eat  the  stone  that  the  cruel 
boy  threw  in  ; 

Stick  yours  on  the  point  of  mamma's 
parasol, 

And  then  he  will  climb  to  the  top  of  the 
pole. 


THE  BEAR  PIT.  87 

"  Some  bears  have  got  two  legs,  and 

some  have  got  more, 
Be  good  to  old  bears  if  they've  no  legs 

or  four ; 
Of  duty  to  age   you  should  never  be 

careless, — 
My  dear,  I  am  bald,  and  I  soon  may  be 

hairless ! 

"The   gravest   aversion    exists    among 

bears 
From   rude   forward  persons  who  give 

themselves  airs, — 
We  know  how  some   graceless   young 

people  were  maul'd 
For  plaguing  a  Prophet,  and  calling  him 

bald. 

"  Strange  ursine  devotion  !  Their  dan- 
cing-days ended, 

Bears  die  to  '  remove '  what,  in  life, 
they  defended  : 

They  succour'd  the  Prophet,  and,  since 
that  affair, 

The  bald  have  a  painful  regard  for  the 
bear." 


88  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

MY  MORAL — Small  people  may  read  it, 

and  run. 
(The  child  has  my  moral, — the  bear  has 

my  bun.) 


MY  NEIGHBOUR  ROSE. 

And  kitawes  and  wenches^  less  adoe, 

My  neighbour  is  astir .' 
By  cockke  and  pie  she  lutes  it  too 

Behynde  the  silver  fir  ! 

THOUGH  walls   but   thin    our  hearths 

divide, 

We're  strangers,  dwelling  side  by  side  ; 
How  gaily  all  your  days  must  glide 

Unvex'd  by  labour. 
I've   seen   you  weep,   and  could  have 

wept ; 
I've   heard  you  sing,  (and  might  have 

slept !) 

Sometimes  I  hear  your  chimney  swept, 
My  charming  neighbour ! 

Your  pets  are   mine.     Pray  what  may 

ail 

The  pup,  once  eloquent  of  tail  ? 
I  wonder  why  your  nightingale 


90  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Is  mute  at  sunset. 

Your  puss,  demure  and  pensive,  seems 
!  Too  fat  to  mouse.     Much  she  esteems 
Yon  sunny  wall,  and,  dozing,  dreams 
Of  mice  she  once  ate. 

Our  tastes  agree.     I  dote  upon 
Frail  jars,  turquoise  and  celadon, 
The  Wedding  March  of  Mendelssohn, 

And  Penseroso. 

When  sorely  tempted  to  purloin 
Your/zV/^  of  Marc  Antoine, 
Fair  virtue  doth  fair  play  enjoin, 

Fair  Virtuoso ! 

At  times  an  Ariel,  cruel-kind, 

Will  kiss  my  lips,  and  stir  your  blind, 

And  whisper  low,  "  She  hides  behind ; 

Thou  art  not  lonely." 
The  tricksy  sprite  would  erst  assist 
At  hush'd  Verona's  moonlight  tryst ; — 
Sweet  Capulet,  thou  wert  not  kiss'd 

By  light  winds  only. 

I  miss  the  simple  days  of  yore, 

When  two  long  braids  of  hair  you  wore, 


MY   NEIGHBOUR   ROSE.  91 

And  chat  botle  was  wonder'd  o'er, 

In  corner  cosy. 

But  gaze  not  back  for  tales  like  those  : 
It's  all  in  order,  I  suppose  ; 
The  Bud  is  now  a  blooming  ROSE, — 

A  rosy- posy ! 

Indeed,  farewell  to  bygone  years  ; 
How  wonderful  the  change  appears  ; 
For  curates  now,  and  cavaliers, 

In  turn  perplex  you  : 
The  last  are  birds  of  feather  gay, 
Who  swear  the  first  are  birds  of  prey  ; 
I'd  scare  them  all  had  I  my  way, 

But  that  might  vex  you. 

Sometimes  I've  envied,  it  is  true, 
That  hero,  joyous  twenty-two, 
Who  sent  bouquets  and  billets  doux, 

And  wore  a  sabre. 
The    rogue!     how    close    his    arm    he 

wound 

About  her  waist,  who  never  frown'd. 
He  loves  you,  Child.     Now,  is  he  bound 

To  love  my  neighbour  ? 


92  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

The  bells  are  ringing.  As  is  meet 
White  favours  fascinate  the  street, 
Sweet  faces  greet  me,  rueful-sweet 

'Twixt  tears  and  laughter  : 
They  crowd  the  door  to  see  her  go, 
The  bliss  of  one  brings  many  woe  ; 
Oh,  kiss  the  bride,  and  I  will  throw 

The  old  shoe  after. 

What  change  in  one  short  afternoon, 
My  own  dear  neighbour  gone, — so  soon  ! 
Is  yon  pale  orb  her  honey-moon 

Slow  rising  hither  ? 
O  Lady,  wan  and  marvellous  ! 
How  oft  have  we  held  commune  thus  ; 
Sweet  memory  shall  dwell  with  us, — 

And  joy  go  with  her. 

1861. 


THE    OLD    OAK-TREE  AT    HAT- 
FIELD   BROADOAK. 

What  ?     Tell  you  that  tale  ?     Come,  a  tale  with  a 

sting 

Would  be  rather  too  much  of  an  excellent  thing! 
I  cartt  point  a  moral,  or  sing  you  the  song, 
My  Years  are  too  short — and  your  Rars  are  too 

long. 

LITTLE  PITCHER. 

A  MIGHTY  growth  !     The  county  side 
Lamented  when  the  Giant  died, 

For  England  loves  her  trees  : 
What  misty  legends  round  him  cling  ; 
How  lavishly  he  once  could  fling 

His  acorns  to  the  breeze  ! 

Who  struck  a  thousand  roots  in  fame, 
Who  gave  the  district  half  its  name, 

Will  not  be  soon  forgotten  : 
Last  spring  he  show'd  but  one   green 

bough, 
The  red  leaves  hang  there  yet, — and 

now 
His  very  props  are  rotten ! 


94  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Elate,  the  thunderbolt  he  braved, 
For  centuries  his  branches  waved 

A  welcome  to  the  blast  ; 
From  reign  to  reign  he  bore  a  spell ; 
No  forester  had  dared  to  fell 

What  time  has  fell'd  at  last. 

The  Monarch  wore  a  leafy  crown, — 
And  wolves,   ere  wolves  were  hunted 
down, 

Found  shelter  in  his  gloom  ; 
Unnumber'd  squirrels  frolick'd  free, 
Glad  music  fill'd  the  gallant  Tree 

From  stem  to  topmost  bloom. 

It's  hard  to  say,  'twere  vain  to  seek, 
When  first  he  ventured  forth,  a  meek 

Petitioner  for  dew  ; 
No  Saxon  spade  disturb'd  his  root, 
The  rabbit  spared  the  tender  shoot, 

And  valiantly  he  grew, 

And  show'd  some  inches  from  the  ground 
When  St.  Augustine  came  and  found 
Us  very  proper  Vandals  : 


THE  OLD   OAK-TREE.  95 

Then  nymphs  had  bluer  eyes  than  hose. 
England  then  measured  men  by  blows, 
And  measured  time  by  candles. 

The  pilgrim  bless'd  his  grateful  shade 
Ere  Richard  led  the  first  crusade  ; 

And  maidens  loved  to  dance 
Where,  boy  and  man,  in  summer-time, 
Chaucer  once  ponder'd  o'er  his  rhyme  ; 

And  Robin  Hood,  perchance, 

Stole  hither  to  Maid  Marian  ; 
(And  if  they  did  not  come,  one  can 

At  any  rate  suppose  it)  ; 
They  met  beneath  the  mistletoe, — 
We've  done  the  same,  and  ought  to  know 

The  reason  why  they  chose  it ! 

And     this     was     call'd     the     Traitor's 

Branch, 
Guy  Warwick  hung  six  yeomen  stanch 

Along  its  mighty  fork  ; 
Uncivil  wars  for  them  !     The  fair 
Red  rose   and  white   still  bloom,  but 

where 
Are  Lancaster  and  York  ? 


96    POEMS  OF   FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Right  mournfully  his  leaves  he  shed 
To  shroud  the  graves  of  England's  dead, 

By  English  falchion  slain  ; 
And  cheerfully,  for  England's  sake, 
He  sent  his  kin  to  sea  with  Drake, 

When  Tudor  humbled  Spain. 

While  Blake  was  fighting  with  the  Dutch 
They  gave  his  poor  old  arms  a  crutch  ; 

And  thrice  four  maids  and  men  ate 
A  meal  within  his  rugged  bark, 
When  Coventry  bewitch'd  the  Park, 

And  Chatham  swayed  the  Senate. 

His  few  remaining  boughs  were  green, 
And  dappled  sunbeams  danced  between 

Upon  the  dappled  deer, 
When,  clad  in  black,  two  mourners  met 
To  read  the  Waterloo  Gazette,— 

They  mourn'd  their  darling  here. 

They  join'd  their  boy.     The  tree  at  last 
Lies  prone,  discoursing  of  the  past, 

Some  fancy-dreams  awaking  ; 
At  rest,  though  headlong  changes  come, 


THE   OLD   OAK-TREE.  97 

Though  nations  arm  to  roll  of  drum, 
And  dynasties  are  quaking. 

Romantic  spot !     By  honest  pride 
Of  old  tradition  sanctified  ; 

My  pensive  vigil  keeping, 
Thy  beauty  moves  me  like  a  spell, 
And  thoughts,  and  tender  thoughts,  up- 
well, 

That  fill  my  heart  to  weeping. 


The  Squire  affirms  with  gravest  look, 
His  Oak  goes  up  to  Domesday  Book  : 

And  some  say  even  higher  ! 
We  rode  last  week  to  see  the  Ruin, 
We  love  the  fair  domain  it  grew  in, 

And  well  we  love  the  Squire. 

A  nature  loyally  controlled, 

And  fashion'd  in  that  righteous  mould 

Of  English  gentleman  ; 
My   child   some   day    will    read    these 

rhymes, 
She  loved  her  "  godpapa  "  betimes,— 

The  little  Christian  ! 


98  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

I  love  the  Past,  its  ripe  pleasance, 
And  lusty  thought,  and  dim  romance,- 

Its  heart-compelling  ditties  ; 
But  more,  these  ties,  in  mercy  sent, 
With  faith  and  true  affection  blent, 
And,  wanting  them,  I  were  content 

To  murmur,  "  Nunc  dimittis" 

HALLINGBURY  :  April,  1859. 


TO   MY   GRANDMOTHER. 

(SUGGESTED     BY    A    PICTURE    BY    MR. 
ROMNEY.) 

Under  the  elm  a  rustic  seat 
Was  merriest  Susarisfet  retreat 
To  merry  make. 

THIS  relative  of  mine, 
Was  she  seventy-and-nine 

When  she  died  ? 
By  the  canvas  may  be  seen 
How  she  look'd  at  seventeen, 

As  a  bride. 

Beneath  a  summer  tree, 
Her  maiden  reverie 

Has  a  charm  ; 
Her  ringlets  are  in  taste  ; 
What  an  arm  !     .     .     what  a  waist 

For  an  arm  ! 


IOO  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

With  her  bridal-wreath,  bouquet, 
Lace  farthingale,  and  gay 

Falbala, — 

Were  Romney's  limning  true, 
What  a  lucky  dog  were  you, 

Grandpapa  ! 

Her  lips  are  sweet  as  love  ; 

They  are  parting  !     Do  they  move  ? 

Are  they  dumb  ? 
Her  eyes  are  blue,  and  beam 
Beseechingly,  and  seem 

To  say,  "  Come  !  " 

What  funny  fancy  slips 

From  atween  these  cherry  lips  ? 

Whisper  me, 
Sweet  sorceress  in  paint, 
What  canon  says  I  mayn't 

Marry  thee  ? 

That  good-for-nothing  Time 
Has  a  confidence  sublime  ! 

When  I  first 
Saw  this  lady,  in  my  youth, 


TO  MY  GRANDMOTHER.  IOI 

Her  winters  had,  forsooth, 
Done  their  worst. 

Her  locks,  as  white  as  snow, 
Once  shamed  the  swarthy  crow  : 

By-and-by 

That  fowl's  avenging  sprite 
Set  his  cruel  foot  for  spite 

Near  her  eye. 

Her  rounded  form  was  lean, 
And  her  silk  was  bombazine  : 

Well  I  wot 

With  her  needles  would  she  sit, 
And  for  hours  would  she  knit, — 

Would  she  not  ? 

Ah,  perishable  clay  ; 

Her  charms  had  dropt  away 

One  by  one : 
But  if  she  heaved  a  sigh 
With  a  burthen,  it  was,  "  Thy 

Will  be  done." 

In  travail,  as  in  tears, 
With  the  fardel  of  her  years 


102  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER 

Overprest, 

In  mercy  she  was  borne 
Where  the  weary  and  the  worn 

Are  at  rest. 

O,  if  you  now  are  there, 
And  sweet  as  once  you  were, 

Grandmamma, 
This  nether  world  agrees 
'Twill  all  the  better  please 

Grandpapa, 


THE  SKELETON  IN  THE  CUP- 
BOARD. 

The  most  forlorn — what  worms  we  are  ! 
Would  wish  to  finish  this  cigar 
Before  departing. 

THE  characters  of  great  and  small 
Come  ready  made,  we  can't  bespeak 

one ; 

Their  sides  are  many,  too, — and  all 
(Except  ourselves)  have  got  a  weak 

one. 

Some  sanguine  people  love  for  life, 
Some  love  their  hobby  till   it  flings 

them. —  • 

How  many  love  a  pretty  wife 

For  love  of  the  eclat  she  brings  them  ! 

A  little  to  relieve  my  mind 

I've  thrown  off  this  disjointed  chatter, 
But  more  because  I'm  disinclined 

To  enter  on  a  painful  matter  : 


104  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Once  I  was  bashful ;  I'll  allow 

I've      blush'd     for    words     untimely 
spoken  ; 

I  still  am  rather  shy,  and  now     .     .     . 
And  now  the  ice  is  fairly  broken. 

We  all  have  secrets  :  you  have  one 
Which  mayn't  be  quite  your  charm- 
ing spouse's  ; 
We  all  lock  up  a  skeleton 

In  some  grim  chamber  of  our  houses  ; 
Familiars  who  exhaust  their  days 
And    nights    in    probing  where    our 

smart  is — 

And  who,  excepting  spiteful  ways, 
•  Are  "  silent,  unassuming  parties" 

We  hug  this  phantom  we  detest, 

Rarely  we  let  it  cross  our  portals  : 
It  is  a  most  exacting  guest, — 

Now,  are  we  not  afflicted  mortals  ? 
Your  neighbour  Gay,  that  jovial  wight, 

As  Dives  rich,  and  brave  as  Hector — 
Poor  Gay  steals  twenty  times  a  night, 

On  shaking  knees,  to  see  his  spectre. 


SKELETON  IN  THE  CUPBOARD.   105 

Old  Dives  fears  a  pauper  fate, 

So  hoarding  in  his  ruling  passion  ; — 
Some  gloomy  souls  anticipate 

A  waistcoat,  straiter   than   the   fash- 
ion!— 

She  childless  pines,  that  lonely  wife, 
And    secret    tears    are    bitter   shed- 
ding ;— 

Hector  may  tremble  all  his  life, 
And  die, — but  not  of  that  he's  dread- 
ing. 

Ah  me,  the  World  !     How  fast  it  spins  ! 

The  beldams  dance,  the  caldron  bub- 
bles ; 
They  shriek, — they  stir  it  for  our  sins, 

And  we  must  drain  it  for  our  troubles. 
We  toil,  we  groan  ; — the  cry  for  love 

Mounts   up  from   this  poor  seething 

city, 
And  yet  I  know  we  have  above 

A  FATHER,  infinite  in  pity. 

When    Beauty    smiles,    when    Sorrow 
weeps, 


106  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Where  sunbeams  play,  where  shadows 

darken, 
One  inmate  of  our  dwelling  keeps 

Its  ghastly  carnival ;— but  hearken  ! 
How  dry  the  rattle  of  the  bones  ! 

That  sound  was  not  to  make  you  start 

meant  : 

Stand  by  !     Your  humble  servant  owns 
The  Tenant  of  this  Dark  Apartment. 


ON  AN  OLD  MUFF. 

He  cannot  be  complete  in  aught 
Who  is  not  humorously  prone,— 

A  man  without  a  merry  thought 
Can  hardly  have  a  funny  bone. 

TIME  has  a  magic  wand ! 
What  is  this  meets  my  hand, 
Moth-eaten,  mouldy,  and 

Cover'd  with  fluff  ? 
Faded,  and  stiff,  and  scant ; 
Can  it  be  ?  no,  it  can't — 
Yes,  I  declare,  it's  Aunt 
Prudence's  Muff! 

Years  ago,  twenty-three, 
Old  Uncle  Doubledee 
Gave  it  to  Aunty  P. 

Laughing  and  teasing — 
"  Pru.,  of  the  breezy  curls, 
Question  those  solemn  churls, 
What  holds  a  pretty  girl's 

Hand  %vithout  squeezing  f 


108  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Uncle  was  then  a  lad 
Gay,  but,  I  grieve  to  add, 
Sinful ;  if  smoking  bad 

Baccfs  vice  : 
Glossy  was  then  this  mink 
Muff,  lined  with  pretty  pink 
Satin,  which  maidens  think 

"  Awfully  nice  !  " 

I  seem  to  see  again 

Aunt  in  her  hood  and  train, 

Glide,  with  a  sweet  disdain, 

Gravely  to  Meeting  : 
Psalm-book,  and  kerchief  new, 
Peep'd  from  the  Muff  of  Pru.; 
Young  men,  and  pious  too, 

Giving  her  greeting. 

Sweetly  her  Sabbath  sped 
Then  ;  from  this  Muff,  it's  said, 
Tracts  she  distributed  : 

Converts  (till  Monday  !) 
Lured  by  the  grace  they  lack'd, 
Follow'd  her.     One,  in  fact, 
Ask'd  for — and  got  his  tract 

Twice  of  a  Sunday ! 


ON   AN   OLD   MUFF.  109 

Love  has  a  potent  spell ; 
Soon  this  bold  Ne'er-do-well, 
Aunt's  too  susceptible 

Heart  undermining, 
Slipt,  so  the  scandal  runs, 
Notes  in  the  pretty  nun's 
Muff,  triple-corner'd  ones, 

Pink  as  its  lining. 

Worse  follow'd,  soon  the  jade 

Fled  (to  oblige  her  blade  !) 

Whilst  her  friends  thought  that  they'd 

Lock'd  her  up  tightly  : 
After  such  shocking  games 
Aunt  is  of  wedded  dames 
Gayest,  and  now  her  name's 

Mrs.  Golightly. 

In  female  conduct  flaw 
Sadder  I  never  saw, 
Faith  stilt  I've  in  the  law 

Of  compensation. 
Once  Uncle  went  astray, 
Smoked,  joked,  and  swore  away, 
Sworn  by  he's  now,  by  a 

Large  congregation-. 


1 10  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Changed  is  the  Child  of  Sin, 
Now  he's  (he  once  was  thin) 
Grave,  with  a  double  chin, — 

Blest  be  his  fat  form  ! 
Changed  is  the  garb  he  wore, 
Preacher  was  never  more 
Prized  than  is  Uncle  for 

Pulpit  or  platform. 

If  all's  as  best  befits 
Mortals  of  slender  wits, 
Then  beg  this  Muff  and  its 

Fair  Owner  pardon  : 
All 's  for  the  best,  indeed 
Such  is  My  simple  creed  ; 
Still  I  must  go  and  weed 

Hard  in  my  garden. 

1863. 


AN  INVITATION  TO  ROME,  AND 
THE  REPLY. 

THE  INVITATION. 

OH,  come   to   Rome,  it   is  a  pleasant 

place, 
Your  London  sun  is  here,  and  smiling 

brightly ; 

The  Briton,  too,  puts  on  his  cheery  face, 
And  Mrs.  Bull  acquits  herself  politely. 
The  Romans  are  an  easy-going  race, 
With    simple    wives    more   dignified 

than  sprightly  ; 
I    see  them  at  their   doors,  as   day   is 

closing, 

Prouder  than  duchesses,  and  more  im- 
posing. 

A    sweet  far  niente  life    promotes    the 
graces  ; 


112  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

They  pass  from  dreamy  bliss  to  wake- 
ful glee, 
And  in  their  bearing  and  their  speech, 

one  traces 

A  breadth,  a  depth — a  grace  of  cour- 
tesy 

Not  found  in  busy  or  inclement  places  ; 
Their  clime  and  tongue  are  much  in 

harmony  : — 

The  Cockney  met  in  Middlesex  or  Surrey, 
Is  often  cold,  and  always  in  a  hurry. 

Oh,  come  to  Rome,  nor  be  content  to 

read 

Of  famous  palace  and  of  stately  street 
Whose  fountains  ever  run  with  joyful 

speed, 
And   never-ceasing    murmur.      Here 

we  greet 
Memnon's  vast  monolith  ;  or,  gay  with 

weed, 

Rich  capitals,  as  corner-stone,  or  seat, 
The  site  of  vanish'd  temples,  where  now 

moulder 
Old  ruins,  masking  ruin  even  older. 


AN   INVITATION  TO   ROME.        113 

Ay,  come,  and  see  the  statues,  pictures, 

churches, 

Although  the  last  are  commonplace, 
or  florid. — 

Who    say   'tis    here    that    superstition 

perches  ? 

Myself,  I'm   glad  the   marbles  have 
been  quarried. 

The  sombre  streets  are  worthy  your  re- 
searches : 

The  ways  are  foul,  the  lava  pavement's 
horrid, 

But  pleasant  sights  that  squeamishness 
disparages, 

Are  miss'd  by  all  who  roll  about  in  car- 
riages. 

I  dare  not  speak  of  Michael  Angelo, 
Such  theme  were  all  too  splendid  for 

my  pen  : 
And  if  I  breathe  the  name  of  Sanzio 

(The  brightest  of  Italian  gentlemen,) 
Is  it  that  love  casts  out  my  fear,  and  so 
I  claim  with  him  a  kindredship  ?   Ah, 
when 


114  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

We  love,  the  name  is  on  our  hearts  en- 
graven, 

As  is  thy  name,  my  own  dear  Bard  of 
Avon. 

Nor  is  the  Coliseum  theme  of  mine, 

'Twas  built  for  poet  of  a  larger  daring  ; 
The  world  goes  there  with  torches  ;  I 

decline 
Thus  to  affront  the  moonbeams  with 

their  flaring. 

Some  time  in  May  our  forces  we'll  com- 
bine 
(Just  you  and  I),  and  try  a  midnight 

airing. 
And  then  I'll  quote  this  rhyme  to  you — 

and  then 
You'll  muse  upon  the  vanity  of  men  ! 

Come  !     We  will  charter  such  a  pair  of 

nags! 
The  country's  better  seen  when  one  is 

riding  : 
We'll  roam  where  yellow  Tiber  speeds 

or  lags 


AN    INVITATION   TO    ROME.        115 

At  will.     The  aqueducts  are   yet  be- 
striding 

With  giant  march  (now  whole,  now  bro- 
ken crags 
With   flowers   plumed)     the   swelling 

and  subsiding 

Campagna,  girt  by  purple  hills  afar, 
That  melt  in  light  beneath  the  evening 
star. 

A  drive   to    Palestrina   will   be   pleas- 
ant ; 

The  wild   fig  grows  where   erst  her 
rampart  stood  ; 

There  oft,  in  goat-skin  clad,  a  sunburnt 

peasant 

Like  Pan  comes  frisking  from  his  ilex 
wood, 

And  seems  to  wake  the  past  time  in  the 

present. 

Fair  contadina,   mark    his    mirthful 
mood, 

No  antique  satyr  he.     The  nimble  fel- 
low 

Can  join  with  jollity  your  saltarello. 


Il6    POEMS   OF    FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

Old   sylvan    peace    and  liberty  !       The 

breath 

Of  life  to  unsophisticated  man. 
Here  Mirth  may  pipe,  Love  here  may 

weave  his  wreath, 
"  Per  daS  al  mio  bene"     When  you 

can, 
Come  share  their  leafy  solitudes.     Pale 

Death 
And  Time  are  grudging  of  our  little 

span  : 
Wan    Time    speeds     lightly    o'er    the 

changing  corn, 
Death  grins  from  yonder  cynical  old 

thorn. 
Oh,   come !      I   send  a  leaf   of   April 

fern, 
It  grew  where  beauty  lingers  round 

decay  : 

Ashes  long  buried  in  a  sculptured  urn 
Are  not  more  dead  than  Rome — so 

dead  to  day  ! 
That  better  time,  for  which  the  patriots 

yearn, 
Delights  the  gaze,  again  to  fade  away, 


THE   REPLY.  1 17 

They  wait,   they  pine  for  what  is  long 

denied, 
And  thus  I  wait  till  thou  art  by  my  side. 

Thou'rt  far  away !     Yet,  while  I  write,  I 

still 
Seem    gently,   Sweet,    to    clasp   thy 

hand  in  mine  ; 
I  cannot  bring  myself  to  drop  the  quill, 

I  cannot  yet  thy  little  hand  resign  ! 
The  plain  is  fading  into  darkness  chill, 
The  Sabine   peaks   are  flushed  with 

light  divine, 
I  watch  alone,  my  fond  thought  wings 

to  thee ; 

Oh,   come   to  Rome.      Oh  come,— oh 
come  to  me ! 

1863. 


THE  REPLY. 


Dear  Exile,  I  was  proud  to  get 

Your  rhyme,  I've  laid  it  up  in  cotton  ; 

You  know  that  you  are  all  to  "  Pet," — 
She  fear'd  that  she  was  quite  forgotten. 


Il8  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Mamma,  who  scolds  me  when  I  mope, 
Insists,  and  she  is  wise  as  gentle, 

That  I  am  still  in  love  !     I  hope 
That  you  feel  rather  sentimental ! 

Perhaps  you  think  your  Loveforlore 
Should  pine  unless  her  slave  be  with 

her. 
Of  course   you're  fond   of  Rome,  and 

more — 
Of   course   you'd    like    to    coax   me 

thither ! 

Che  !  quit  this  dear,  delightful  maze 
Of  calls  and  balls,  to  be  intensely 
Discomfited  in  fifty  ways — 

I  like  your  confidence,  immensely ! 

Some  girls  who  love  to  ride  and  race, 
And  live  for  dancing,  like  the  Bruens, 

Confess  that  Rome's  a  charming  place — 
In  spite  of  all  the  stupid  ruins  ! 

I  think  it  might  be  sweet  to  pitch 
One's    tent    beside    those    banks    of 
Tiber, 

And  all  that  sort  of  thing,  of  which 


THE   REPLY.  119 

Dear  Hawthorne's  "quite"  the  best 
describer. 

To  see  stone  pines  and  marble  gods 

In  garden  alleys  red  with  roses  ; — 
The  Perch  where  Pio  Nono  nods  ; — 

The  Church  where  Raphael  reposes. 
Make  pleasant  giros— when  we  may ; 

Jump  stagionate  (where  they're  easy  !) 
And  play  croquet ;  the  Bruens  say 

There's  turf  behind  the  Ludovici ! 

I'll  bring  my  books,  though  Mrs.  Mee 

Says  packing  books  is  such  a  worry  ; 
I'll  bring  my  Golden  Jreasury, 

Manzoni,  and,   of  course,  a   "  Mur- 
ray ! " 
Your  verses  (if  you  so  advise  !) 

A  Dante — Auntie  owns  a  quarto  ; 
I'll  try  and  buy  a  smaller  size, 

And  read  him  on  the  muro  torto. 

But  can  I  go  ?     La  Madre  thinks 

It  would  be  such  an  undertaking  ! 
(I  wish  we  could  consult  a  sphinx  !) 


I2O    POEMS   OF   FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

The  thought  alone  has  left  her  quak- 
ing !     . 
Papa  (we  do  not  mind  papa) 

Has  got    some    "  notice"    of   some 

"  motion," 

And  could  not  stay  ;  but,  why  not, — ah, 
I've  not  the  very  slightest  notion  ! 

The  Browns  have  come  to  stay  a  week — 

They've  brought  the  boys — I  haven't 

thank'd  'em  ; 
For  Baby  Grand,  and  Baby  Pic, 

Are  playing  cricket  in  my  sanctum  ! 
Your  Rover,  too,  affects  my  den, 

And  when  I  pat  the  dear  old  whelp, 

it    .     . 
It  makes  me  think  of  You,  and  then   .   . 

And  then  I  cry — I  cannot  help  it. 

Ah  yes,  before  you  left  me,  ere 
Our  separation  was  impending, 

These  eyes  had  seldom  shed  a  tear, — 
I  thought  my  joy  could  have  no  end- 
ing ! 

But  cloudlets  gather'd  soon,  and  this  — 


THE   REPLY.  121 

This  was  the  first  that  rose  to  grieve 

me — 

To  know  that  I  possess'd  the  bliss,— 
For  then   I   knew  such  bliss   might 

leave  me ! 

My  strain  is  sad,  but,  oh,  believe 

Your  words    have    made    my  spirit 

better ; 
And  if,  perhaps,  at  times  I  grieve, 

I'd  meant  to  write  a  cheery  letter ; 
But  skies  were  dull ;  Rome  sounded  hot, 

I  fancied  I  could  live  without  it: 
I  thought  I'd  go,  I  thought  I'd  not, 

And  then  I  thought  I'd  think  about  it. 

The  sun  now  glances  o'er  the  Park, 

If  tears  are  on  my  cheek,  they  glitter, 
I  think  I've  kissed  your  rhyme,  for  hark, 

My  "  bulley  "  gives  a  saucy  twitter  ! 
Your  blessed  words  extinguish  doubt, 

A  sudden  breeze  is  gaily  blowing, — 
And  Hark !   The  minster  bells  ring  out — 

She  ought  to  go.      Of  course   she's 
going  / 

1863. 


GERALDINE. 

She  will  not  need  the  Shepherd's  crook, 
Her  griefs  are  only  passing  shadow  ; 

She1  II  bask  beside  the  purest  brook, 
And  nibble  in  the  greenest  tneadow, 

A  SIMPLE  child  has  claims 
On  your  sentiment,  her  name's 

Geraldine. 

Be  tender,  but  beware, 
She's  frolicsome  as  fair, — 

And  fifteen. 

She  has  gifts  to  grace  allied, 
And  each  she  has  applied, 

And  improved  : 

She  has  bliss  that  lives  and  leans 
On  loving,— ah,  that  means 

She  is  loved. 

Her  beauty  is  refined 

By  sweet  harmony  of  mind, 


GERALDINE.  123 

And  the  art, 

And  the  blessed  nature,  too, 
Of  a  tender,  of  a  true 

Little  heart. 

And  yet  I  must  not  vault 
Over  any  foolish  fault 

That  she  owns  ; 
Or  others  might  rebel, 
And  enviously  swell 

In  their  zones. 

For  she's  tricksy  as  the  fays, 
Or  her  pussy  when  it  plays 

With  a  string  : 
She's  a  goose  about  her  cat, 
Her  ribbons,  and  all  that 

Sort  of  thing. 

These  foibles  are  a  blot, 
Still  she  never  can  do  what 

Is  not  nice  ; 

Such  as  quarrel,  and  give  slaps — 
As  I've  known  her  get,  perhaps, 

Once  or  twice. 


124  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

The  spells  that  draw  her  soul 
Are  subtle— sad  or  droll  : 

She  can  show 
That  virtuoso  whim 
Which  consecrates  our  dim 

Long-ago. 

A  love  that  is  not  sham 

For  Stothard,  Blake,  and  Lamb  ; 

And  I've  known 
Cordelia's  sad  eyes 
Cause  angel- tears  to  rise 

In  her  own. 

Her  gentle  spirit  yearns 

When  she  reads  of  Robin  Burns  ;— 

Luckless  Bard, 

Had  she  blossom'd  in  thy  time, 
Oh,  how  rare  had  been  the  rhyme 

— And  reward ! 

Thrice  happy  then  is  he 
Who,  planting  such  a  Tree, 

Sees  it  bloom 
To  shelter  him  ;  indeed 


GERALDINE.  125 

We  have  joyance  as  we  speed 
To  our  doom ! 

I  am  happy,  having  grown 
Such  a  Sapling  of  my  own  ; 

And  I  crave 

No  garland  for  my  brows, 
But  rest  beneath  its  boughs 

To  the  grave. 

1864. 


THE   HOUSEMAID. 

The  poor  can  love  through  toil  and  pain, 
Although  their  homely  speech  is  fain 

To  halt  in  fetters  : 
They  feel  as  much,  and  do  far  more 
Than  some  of  those  they  boiu  before^ 

MiscalFd  their  betters. 

WISTFUL  she  stands— and  yet  resign'd 
She  watches  by  the  window-blind  : 

Poor  girl.     No  doubt 
The  pilgrims  here  despise  thy  lot  : 
Thou  canst  not  stir,  because  'tis  not 

Thy  Sunday  out. 

To  play  a  game  of  hide  and  seek 
With  dust  and  cobweb  all  the  week 

Small  pleasure  yields  : 
Oh  dear,  how  nice  it  is  to  drop 
One's  pen  and  ink — one's  pail  and  mop  : 

And  scour  the  fields. 

Poor  Bodies  few  such  pleasures  know  ; 
Seldom  they  come.    How  soon  they  go  ! 


THE   HOUSEMAID.  I2/ 

But  Souls  can  roam  ; 
For  lapt  in  visions  airy-sweet, 
She  sees  in  this  unlovely  street 

Her  far-off  home. 

The  street  is  now  no  street !  She  pranks 
A  purling  brook  with  thymy  banks. 

In  fancy's  realm 

Yon  post  supports  no  lamp,  aloof 
It  spreads  above  her  parents'  roof, — 

A  gracious  elm. 

A  father's  aid,  a  mother's  care, 
And  life  for  her  was  happy  there  : 

Yet  here,  in  thrall 
She     sits,    and     dreams,    and     fondly 

dreams, 
And  fondly  smiles  on  one  who  seems 

More  dear  than  all. 

Her  dwelling-place  I  can't  disclose  ! 
Suppose  her  fair,  her  name  suppose 

Is  Car,  or  Kitty  ; 

She    may    be    Jane  —  she     might    be 
plain — 


128    POEMS   OF    FREDERICK    LOCKER. 

For  must  the  subject  of  my  strain 

Be  always  pretty  ? 

*  *  # 

Oft  on  a  cloudless  afternoon 

Of  budding  May  and  leafy  June, 

Fit  Sunday  weather, 
I  pass  thy  window  by  design. 
And  wish  thy  Sunday  out  and  mine 

Might  fall  together. 

For  sweet  it  were  thy  lot  to  dower 
With  one  brief  joy  :  a  white-robed flowet 

That  prude  or  preacher 
Hardly  could  deem  it  were  unmeet 
To  lay  on  thy  poor  path,  thou  sweet, 

Forlorn,  young  creature. 

*  *  * 

But  if  her  thought  on  wooing  run 
And  if  her  Sunday-swain  is  one 

Who's  fond  of  strolling, 
She'd  like  my  nonsense  less  than  his 
And  so  it's  better  as  it  is — 

And  that's  consoling. 

1864. 


THE  JESTER'S  PLEA. 

These  verses  were  published  in  1862,  in  a  volume  of 
Poems  (by  several  hands),  entitled  "An  Offering  to 
Lancashire." 

THE  world's  a  sorry  wench,  akin 

To  all  that's  frail  and  frightful : 
The  world's  as  ugly,  ay,  as  sin, — 

And  almost  as  delightful ! 
The  world's  a  merry  world  (pro  tem.\ 

And  some  are  gay,  and  therefore 
It  pleases  them,  but  some  condemn 

The  world  they  do  not  care  for. 

The  world's  an  ugly  world.     Offend 
Good  people,  how  they  wrangle  ! 

Their  manners  that  they  never  mend, — • 
The  characters  they  mangle  ! 

They  eat,  and  drink,  and  scheme,  and 

plod,— 
They  go  to  church  on  Sunday  ; 


130  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

And  many  are  afraid  of  God — 
And  more  of  Mrs.  Grundy. 

The  time  for  pen  and  sword  was  when 

"My  ladye  fay  re  "  for  pity 
Could   tend  her  wounded  knight,  and 
then 

Be  tender  to  his  ditty. 
Some  ladies  now  make  pretty  songs, 

And  some  make  pretty  nurses  : 
Some  men  are  great  at  righting  wrongs, 

And  some  at  writing  verses. 

I  wish  we  better  understood 

The  tax  our  poets  levy  ; 
I  know  the  Muse  is  goody  good, 

I  think  she's  rather  heavy  : 
Now  she  compounds  for  winning  ways 

By  morals  of  the  sternest ; 
Methinks  the  lays  of  nowadays 

Are  painfully  in  earnest. 

When  wisdom  halts,  I  humbly  try 

To  make  the  most  of  folly  : 
If  Pallas  be  unwilling,  I 


THE  JESTER'S  PLEA.  131 

Prefer  to  flirt  with  Polly  ; 
To  quit  the  goddess  for  the  maid 

Seems  low  in  lofty  musers  ; 
But  Pallas  is  a  lofty  jade — 

And  beggars  can't  be  choosers. 

I  do  not  wish  to  see  the  slaves 

Of  party  stirring  passion, 
Or  psalms  quite  superseding  staves 

Or  piety  "  the  fashion." 
I  bless  the  Hearts  where  pity  glows, 

Who,  here  together  banded, 
Are  holding  out  a  hand  to  those 

That  wait  so  empty-handed  ! 

Masters,  may  one  in  motley  clad, 

A  Jester  by  confession, 
Scarce  noticed  join,  half  gay,  half  sad, 

The  close  of  your  procession  ? 
This  garment  here  seems  out  of  place 

With  graver  robes  to  mingle, 
But  if  one  tear  bedews  his  face, 

Forgive  the  bells  their  jingle. 


TO  MY  MISTRESS. 

His  musings  ivere  trite,  and  their  burden,  forsooth. 
The  wisdom  of  age  and  the  folly  of  youth. 

COUNTESS,  I  see  the  flying  year, 
And  feel  how  Time  is  wasting  here  : 
Ay  more,  he  soon  his  worst  will  do, 
And  garner  all  Your  roses  too. 

It  pleases  Time  to  fold  his  wings 
Around  our  best  and  fairest  things  ; 
He'll  mar  your  blooming  cheek,  as  now 
He  stamps  his  mark  upon  my  brow. 

i 

The  same  mute  planets  rise  and  shine 
To  rule  your  days  and  nights  as  mine  : 
Once  I  was  young  and  gay,  and 

see !     .     . 
What  I  am  now  you  soon  will  be. 

And  yet  I  boast  a  certain  charm 

That  shields  me  from  your  worst  alarm  ; 


TO   MY  MISTRESS.  133 

And  bids  me  gaze,  with  front  sublime, 
On  all  these  ravages  of  Time. 

You  boast  a  gift  to  charm  the  eyes, 
I  boast  a  gift  that  Time  defies  : 
For  mine  will  still  be  mine,  and  last 
When  all  your  pride  of  beauty's  past. 

My  gift  may  long  embalm  the  lures 
Of  eyes — ah,  sweet  to  me  as  yours  : 
For  ages  hence  the  great  and  good 
Will  judge  you  as  I  choose  they  should. 

In  days  to  come  the  peer  or  clown, 
With  whom  I  still  shall  win  renown, 
Will  only  know  that  you  were  fair 
Because  I  chanced  to  say  you  were 

Proud  Lady !     Scornful  beauty  mocks 
At  aged  heads  and  silver  locks  ; 
But  think  awhile  before  you  fly, 
Or  spurn  a  poet  such  as  I. 

KENWOOD  :  July  21,  1864. 


MY  MISTRESS'S  BOOTS, 

She  has  dancing  eyes  and  ruby  lips, 
Delightful  boots — and  aivay  she  skips. 

THEY  nearly  strike  me  dumb,— 
I  tremble  when  they  come 

Pit-a-pat  : 

This  palpitation  means 
These  boots  are  Geraldine's— 

Think  of  that ! 

O,  where  did  hunter  win 
So  delicate  a  skin 

For  her  feet  ? 
You  lucky  little  kid, 
You  perish'd,  so  you  did, 

For  my  sweet. 

The  faery  stitching  gleams 
On  the  sides,  and  in  the  seams, 
And  it  shows 


MY  MISTRESS'S  BOOTS.         135 

The  Pixies  were  the  wags 
Who  tipt  these  funny  tags, 
And  these  toes. 


What  soles  to  charm  an  elf ! 
Had  Crusoe,  sick  of  self, 

Chanced  to  view 
One  printed  near  the  tide, 
O,  how  hard  he  would  have  tried 

For  the  two ! 

For  Gerry's  debonair, 
And  innocent  and  fair 

As  a  rose  ; 

She's  an  angel  in  a  frock, 
She's  an  angel  with  a  clock 
To  her  hose. 

The  simpletons  who  squeeze 
Their  extremities  to  please 

Mandarins, 

Would  positively  flinch 
From  venturing  to  pinch 

Geraldine's. 


136  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Cinderalla's  lefts  and  rights 
To  Geraldine's  were  frights  : 

And  I  trow, 

The  damsel,  deftly  shod, 
Has  dutifully  trod 

Until  now. 

Come,  Gerry,  since  it  suits 
Such  a  pretty  Puss  (in  Boots) 

These  to  don, 
Set  this  dainty  hand  awhile 
On  my  shoulder,  dear,  and  I'll 

Put  them  on. 

ALBURY,  June 29,  1864. 


THE  ROSE  AND  THE  RING. 

(Christmas,  1854,  and  Christmas,  1863.) 

SHE  smiles,  but  her  heart  is  in  sable, 

Ay,  sad  as  her  Christmas  is  chill ; 
She  reads,  and  her  book  is  the  fable 

He  penn'd  for  her  while  she  was  ill. 
It  is  nine  years  ago  since  he  wrought  it, 

Where  reedy  old  Tiber  is  king  ; 
And  chapter  by  chapter  he  brought  it, 

And  read  her  the  Rose  and  the  Ring. 

And  when  it  was  printed,  and  gaining 

Renown  with  all  lovers  of  glee, 
He  sent  her  this  copy  containing 

His  comical  little  croquis; 
A  sketch  of  a  rather  droll  couple — 

She's  pretty,  he's  quite  t'other  thing  ! 
He  begs  (with  a  spine  vastly  supple) 

She  will  study  the  Rose  and  the  Ring. 


138  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

It  pleased  the  kind  Wizard  to  send  her 

The  last  and  the  best  of  his  toys ; 
He  aye  had  a  sentiment  tender 

For  innocent  maidens  and  boys  ; 
And  though  he  was  great  as  a  scorner, 

The    guileless   were    safe    from    his 

sting:— 
How  sad  is  past  mirth  to  the  mourner — 

/V  tear  on  the  Rose  and  the  Ring  ! 

She  reads  ;  I  may  vainly  endeavour 

Her  mirth-chequer'd  grief  to  pursue, 
For  she  knows  she  has  lost,  and  for  ever, 

The  heart  that  was  bared  to  so  few ; 
But  here,  on  the  shrine  of  his  glory, 

One  poor  little  blossom  I  fling  ; 
And  you  see  there's  a  nice  little  story 

Attach'd  to  the  Rose  and  the  Ring. 

1864. 


NUPTIAL  VERSES. 

THE  town  despises  new  world  lays  : 

The  foolish  town  is  frantic 
For  story-books  that  tell  of  days 

Which  time  has  made  romantic  ; 
Of  days,  whose  chiefest  glories  fill 

The  gloom  of  crypt  and  barrow  ; 
When  soldiers  were,  as  Love  is  still, 

Content  with  bow  and  arrow. 

But  why  should  we  the  fancy  chide  ? 

The  world  will  always  hunger 
To  know  how  people  lived  and  died 

When  all  the  world  was  younger. 
We  like  to  read  of  knightly  parts 

In  maidenhood's  distresses, 
Of  tryst,  with  sunshine  in  light  hearts, 

And  moonbeam  on  dark  tresses  ; 

And  how,  when  err  ante -knyghte  or  erl 
Proved  well  the  love  he  gave  her, 


140  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

She'd  send  him  scarf  or  silken  curl, 

As  earnest  of  her  favour  ; 
And  how  (the  Fair  at  times  were  rude  !' 

Her  knight,  ere  homeward  riding, 
Would  take,  and,  ay  with  gratitude, 

His  lady's  silver  chiding. 

We  love  the  rare  old  days  and  rich 

That  poetry  has  painted  ; 
We  mourn  that  sacred  age  with  which 

We  never  were  acquainted. 
Absurd !  our  modern  world's  divine, 

A  world  to  dare  and  do  in, 
A  more  romantic  world.     In  fine 

A  better  world  to  woo  in  ! 


The  flow  of  life  is  yet  a  rill 

That  laughs,  and  leaps,  and  glistens ; 
And  still  the  woodland  rings,  and  still 

The  old  Damoetas  listens. 
Romance,  as  tender  as  she's  true, 

Our  Isle  has  never  quitted  : 
So,  LAD  and  LASSIE,  when  you  woo, 

You  hardly  need  be  pitied. 


NUPTIAL  VERSES.  141 

Our  lot  is  cast  on  pleasant  days, 

In  not  unpleasant  places  ; 
Young  ladies  now  have  pretty  ways, 

As  well  as  pretty  faces  ; 
So  never  sigh  for  what  has  been, 

And  let  us  cease  complaining 
That   we    have  loved  when    our  dear 
Queen 

VICTORIA  was  reigning. 

Oh  yes,  young  love  is  lovely  yet, 

With  faith  and  honour  plighted  : 
I  love  to  see  a  pair  so  met, 

Youth — Beauty — all  united. 
Such  dear  ones  may  they  ever  wear 

The  roses  fortune  gave  them: 
Ah,  know  we  such  a  BLESSED  PAIR  ? 

I  think  we  do !   GOD  SAVE  THEM  '. 


MRS.  SMITH. 

Heigh  ho  !  they1  reived.     The  cards  are  dealt, 

Our  frolic  games  are  o'er  ; 
I've  laugh*  d,  and  fool"  d,  and  loved.     I've  felt — 

As  I  shall  feel  no  more  ; 
Yon  little  thatch  is  where  she  lives, 

Yon  spire  is  inhere  she  met  me  ; — 
/  think  that  if  she  quite  forgives, 

She  cannot  quite  forget  me. 

LAST  year  I  trod  these  fields  with  Di, 
Fields  fresh  with  clover  and  with  rye  ; 

Now  they  seem  arid. 
Then  Di  was  fair  and  single  ;  how 
Unfair  it  seems  on  me,  for  now 

Di's  fair — and  married  ! 

A  blissful  swain — I  scorn'd  the  song 
Which  says  that  though  young  Love  is 
strong, 

The  Fates  are  stronger: 
Breezes  then  blew  a  boon  to  men, 
The  buttercups  were  bright,  and  then 

This  grass  was  longer. 


MRS.    SMITH.  143 

That  day  I  saw  and  much  esteem'd 
Di's  ankles,  which  the  clover  seem'd 

Inclined  to  smother: 
It  twitch'd,  and  soon  untied  (for  fun) 
The  ribbon  of  her  shoes,  first  one, 

And  then  the  other. 

I'm  told  that  virgins  augur  some 
Misfortune  if  their  shoe-strings  come 

To  grief  on  Friday: 
And  so  did  Di,  and  then  her  pride 
Decreed  that  shoe-strings  so  untied 

Are  "  so  untidy  !  " 

Of  course  I  knelt ;  with  ringers  deft 
I  tied  the  right,  and  tied  the  left: 

Says  Di,  "  The  stubble 
Is  very  stupid  ! — as  I  live 
I'm  quite  ashamed  !    .    .    .    I'm  shock'd 
to  give 

You  so  much  trouble  !  " 

For  answer  I  was  fain  to  sink 
To  what  we  all  would  say  and  think 
Were  Beauty  present: 


144    POEMS   OF   FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

"  Don't  mention  such  a  simple  act — 
A  trouble  ?  not  the  least !     In  fact 
It's  rather  pleasant !  " 

I  trust  that  Love  will  never  tease 
Poor  little  Di,  or  prove  that  he's 

A  graceless  rover. 
She's  happy  now  as  Mrs.  Smith— 
And  less  polite  when  walking  with 

Her  chosen  lover ! 

Heigh-ho  !     Although  no  moral  clings 
To  Di's  blue  eyes,  and  sandal  strings, 

We've  had  our  quarrels.- 
I  think  that  Smith  is  thought  an  ass,— 
I  know  that  when  they  walk  in  grass 

She  wears  balmorals. 

1864. 


IMPLORA  PACE. 

My  lot  as  I  rove, 

Is  to  sing  for  the  throng; 
And  will  not  they  love 

The  poor  child  for  his  song? 

LIFE  is  at  best  a  weary  round 

Of  mingled  joy  and  woe  ; 
How  soon  the  passing  knell  will  sound  ! 

Is  death  a  friend  or  foe  ? 
Our  fleeting  days  are  sad,  and  vain 
Is  much  that  tempts  us  to  remain 

Yet  we  are  loth  to  go. 
Must  I  soon  tread  yon  silent  shore, 
Go  hence,  and  then  be  seen  no  more  ? 

I  love  to  think  that  those  I  loved 

May  gather  round  the  bier 
Of  him  who,  if  he  erring  proved, 

Still  held  them  more  than  dear. 
My  friends  grow  fewer  day  by  day, 
Yes,  one  by  one  they  drop  away ; 


146  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

And  if  I  shed  no  tear, 
Departed  shades,  while  life  endures, 
This  poor  heart  yearns  for   love — and 
Yours. 

That  day,  will  there  be  one  to  shed 

A  tear  behind  the  hearse  ? 
Or  cry,  "  Poor  Yorick,  are  you  dead  ? 

I  could  have  spared  a  worse — 
We  never  spoke  ;  we  never  met ; 
I  never  heard  your  voice  ;  and  yet 

/  loved  you  for  your  verse  ?  " 
Such  love  would  make  the  flowers  wave 
In  gladness  on  their  poet's  grave. 

A  few,  few  years,  like  one  short  week, 

Will  pass  and  leave  behind 
A   stone    moss-grown,    that    none   will 

seek, 

And  none  would  care  to  find. 
Then  I  shall  sleep,  and  gain  release 
In  perfect  rest — the  perfect  peace 

For  which  my  soul  has  pined  ; — 
And  men  will  love,  and  weary  men 
Will  sue  for  quiet  slumber  then. 


MR.    PLACID'S   FLIRTATION. 

"  Jemima  ivas  eras s,  and  I  lost  my  -umbrella 
That  day  at  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella." 

LETTERS  FROM  ROME. 

Miss  TRISTRAM'S  poulet  ended  thus  : 

' '  Nota  bene, 
We  meet  for  croquet  in  the  Aldobran- 

dini." 
Says  my  wife,  "  Then    I'll   drive,    and 

you'll  ride  with  Selina  " 
(Jones's  fair  spouse,  of  the  Via  Sistina). 

We  started  :  I'll  own  that  my  family 
deem 

I'm  an  ass,  but  I'm  not  such  an  ass  as  I 
seem  ; 

As  we  crossed  the  stones  gently  a  nurse- 
maid said  "  La — 

There  goes  Mrs.  Jones  with  Miss  Placid's 
papa!" 


148    POEMS   OF    FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

Our  friends,  one  or  two  may  be  men- 

tion'd  anon, 
Had  arranged  rendezvous   at  the  Gate 

of  St.  John  : 
That  pass'd,  off  we  spun  over  turf  that's 

not  green  there, 
And   soon   were   all   met   at   the   villa. 

You've  been  there  ? 

I'll  try  and  describe,  or  I  won't,  if  you 

please, 
The  cheer  that  was  set  for  us  under  the 

trees  : 
You  have  read  the  menu,  may  you  read 

it  again  ; 
Champagne,  perigord,  galantine,  and — 

champagne. 

Suffice  it  to  say,  I  got  seated  between 
Mrs.  Jones  and  old  Brown — to  the  lat- 

ter's  chagrin. 
Poor  Brown,  who  believes  in  himself, 

and — another  thing, 
Whose  talk  is  so  bald,  but  whose  cheeks 

are  so — t'other  thing. 


MR.  PLACID'S  FLIRTATION.      149 

She  sang,  her  sweet  voice  fill'd  the  gay 

garden  alleys  ; 
I  jested,  but  Brown  would  not  smile  at 

my  sallies  ; — 
Selina   remark'd    that   a   swell   met   at 

Rome 
Is  not  always  a  swell  when  you  meet 

him  at  home. 

The  luncheon  despatch'd,  we  adjourn'd 

to  croquet, 

A  dainty,  but  difficult  sport  in  its  way. 
Thus  I  counsel  the  sage,  who  to  play  at 

it  stoops, 
Belabour    thy    neighbour,    and    spoon 

through  thy  hoops. 

Then  we  stroll'd,  and  discourse  found 

its  kindest  of  tones  : 
"  Oh,  how  charming  were  solitude  and 

— Mrs.  Jones  !  " 
"  Indeed,   Mr.   Placid,   I   dote   on   the 

sheeny 
And   shadowy  paths  of  the  Aldobran- 

dini! 


150  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

A  girl  came  with  violet  posies,  and  two 
Gentle    eyes,  like  her  violets,  freshen'd 

with  dew, 
And   a  kind  of  an   indolent,   fine -lady 

air,— 
As  if  she  by  accident  found  herself  there. 

I  bought  one.  Selina  was  pleased  to  ac- 
cept it ; 

She  gave  me  a  rosebud  to  keep — and 
I've  kept  it. 

Then  twilight  was  near,  and  I  think,  in 
my  heart, 

When  she  vow'd  she  must  go,  she  was 
loth  to  depart. 

Cattivo  momenta  f  we  dare  not  delay  : 
The  steeds  are  remounted,  and  wheels 

roll  away  : 
The  ladies  condemn  Mrs.  Jones,  as  the 

phrase  is, 
But  vie  with  each  other  in  chanting  my 

praises. 

"  He  has  so  much  to  say ! "  cries  the 
fair  Mrs.  Legge  ; 


MR.  PLACID'S  FLIRTATION.     151 

"  How  amusing  he  was  about  missing 

the  peg  !  " 
"  What  a  beautiful   smile!"    says  the 

plainest  Miss  Gunn. 
All  echo,  "  He's  charming!  delightful! 

—What  fun  ! " 

This  sounds  rather  nice,  and  it's  per- 
fectly clear  it 

Had  sounded  more  nice  had  I  happen'd 
to  hear  it ; 

The  men  were  less  civil,  and  gave  me  a 
rub, 

So  I  happen'd  to  hear  when  I  went  to 
the  Club. 

Says  Brown,  "I  shall  drop  Mr.  Placid's 
society ; " 

(Brown  is  a  prig  of  improper  propriety  ;) 

"  Hang  him,"  said  Smith  (who  from 
cant's  not  exempt), 

"  Why  he'll  bring  immorality  into  con- 
tempt." 

Says  I  (to  myself)  when  I  found  me 
alone, 


152    POEMS   OF    FREDERICK    LOCKER. 

"  My  dear  wife  has  my  heart,  is  it  al- 
ways her  own  ?  " 

And  further,  says  I  (to  myself),  "  I'll  be 
shot 

If  I  know  if  Selina  adores  me  or  not." 

Says  Jones,  "I've  just  come  from  the 

scam,  at  Veii, 
And  I've  brought  some  remarkably  fine 

scarabagi !  " 


BEGGARS. 

Some  beggars  look  on  :  I  extremely  regret  it — 
They  wish  for  a  taste.     Don't  they  wish  they  may 

get  it. 

She  thus  aggravates  both  the  humble  and  needy, — 
Yoitllown  she  is  thoughtless — /  think  she  is  greedy. 

PUNCH. 

I  AM  pacing  the  Mall  in  a  rapt  reverie, — 
I  am  thinking  if  Sophy  is  thinking  of  me, 
When  I'm  roused  by  a  ragged  and 

shivering  wretch, 
Who  seems  to  be  well  on  his  way  to 

Jack  Ketch. 

He  has  got  a  bad  face,  and  a  shocking 
bad  hat ; 

A  comb  in  his  fist,  and  he  sees  Pm  a 
flat, 

For  he  says,  "  Buy  a  comb,  it's  a  fine 
un  to  wear ; 

On'y  try  it,  my  Lord,  through  your  whis- 
kers and  'air." 


154  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

He  eyes  my  gold  chain,  as  if  anxious  to 

crib  it  ; 
He  looks  just  as  if  he'd  been  blown  from 

a  gibbet. 
I  pause     ...     I  pass  on,  and  beside 

the  club  fire 
I  settle  that  Sophy  is  all  I  desire. 

As  I  walk  from  the  club,  and  am  deep 

in  a  strophe 
That  rolls  upon  all  that's  delicious  in 

Sophy, 
I'm  humbly  address'd  by  an  "object" 

unnerving, 
So  tatter'd  a  wretch  must  be  "highly 

deserving." 

She  begs, — I  am  touch'd,  but  I've  great 
circumspection  : 

I  stifle  remorse  with  the  soothing  reflec- 
tion 

That  cases  of  vice  are  by  no  means  a 
rarity — 

The  worst  vice  of  all's  indiscriminate 
charity. 


BEGGARS.  155 

Am  I  right  ?  How  I  wish  that  my  cleri- 
cal guide 

Would  settle  this  question — and  others 
beside. 

For  always  one's  heart  to  be  hardening 
thus, 

If  wholesome  for  beggars,  is  hurtful  for 
us. 

A   few   minutes   later   I'm    happy    and 

free 
To    sip    "  Its   own    Sophy  kins' "  five- 

o'clock  tea  : 
Her  table   is  loaded,  for  when  a  girl 

marries, 
What  bushels  of  rubbish  they  send  her 

from  Barry's  ! 

"  There's  a  present  for  you,  Sir  ! "  Yes, 
thanks  to  her  thrift, 

My  Pet  has  been  able  to  buy  me  a  gift ; 

And  she  slips  in  my  hand,  the  delight- 
fully sly  Thing, 

A  paper-weight  form'd  of  a  bronze  lizard 
writhing. 


156    POEMS   OF    FREDERICK    LOCKER. 

"  What  a  charming  cadeau !  and  so 
truthfully  moulded  ; 

But  perhaps  you  don't  know,  or  deserve 
to  be  scolded, 

That  in  casting  this  metal  a  live,  harm- 
less lizard 

Was  cruelly  tortured  in  ghost  and  in 
gizzard  ?  " 

"  Po-oh  !  " — says  my  lady,  (she  always 

says  "  Pooh  " 
When  she's  wilful,  and  does  what  she 

oughtn't  to  do !) 
"  Hopgarten  protests  they've  no  feeling, 

and  so 
It  was  only  their  muscular  movement, 

you  know  ! " 

Thinks  I  (when  I've  said  au  revoir,  and 

depart — 
A  Comb  in  my  pocket,  a  Weight — at 

my  heart), 
And  when  wretched  mendicants  writhe, 

there's  a  notion 
That  begging  is  only  their  ''muscular 

motion." 


THE  JESTER'S   MORAL. 

/  grudge  that  lonely  man  his  crook, 

It  seems  no  idle  ivhim 
That  if  he  reads  in  Nature's  book, 

Her  voice  has  been  to  hint 
A  spiritual  life,  to  sway 
And  cheer  him  on  his  endless  way. 

THE  OLD  SHEPHERD. 

Is  human  life  a  pleasant  game 

That  gives  the  palm  to  all  ? 
A  fight  for  fortune,  or  for  fame, 

A  struggle,  and  a  fall  ? 
Who  views  the  Past,  and  all  he  prized, 

With  tranquil  exultation  ? 
And  who  can  say — I've  realised 

My  fondest  aspiration  ? 

Alas,  not  one.     No,  rest  assured 
That  all  are  prone  to  quarrel 

With   fate,  when  worms   destroy   their 

gourd, 
Or  mildew  spoils  their  laurel  : 


158     POEMS   OF    FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

The  prize  may  come  to  cheer  our  lot, 
But  all  too  late  ;  and  granted 

If  even  better,  still  it's  not 
Exactly  what  we  wanted. 

My  schoolboy  time  !     I  wish  to  praise 

That  bud  of  brief  existence, — 
The  vision  of  my  younger  days 

Now  trembles  in  the  distance. 
An  envious  vapour  lingers  here, 

And  there  I  find  a  chasm  ; 
But  much  remains,  distinct  and  clear, 

To  sink  enthusiasm. 

Such  thoughts  just  now  disturb  my  soul 

With  reason  good,  for  lately 
I  took  the  train  to  Marley-knoll, 

And  cross'd  the  fields  to  Mately. 
I  found  old  Wheeler  at  his  gate, 

He  once  rare  sport  could  show  me  : 
My  Mentor  too  on  springe  and  bait — 

But  Wheeler  did  not  know  me. 

"  Goodlord  !  "    at    last    exclaim'd    the 

churl, 
"  Are  you  the  little  chap,  sir, 


THE  JESTER'S  MORAL.         159 

What  used  to  train  his  hair  in  curl, 
And  wore  a  scarlet  cap,  sir  ?  " 

And  then  he  took  to  fill  in  blanks, 
And  conjure  up  old  faces  ; 

And  talk  of  well-remember'd  pranks 
In  half-forgotten  places. 

It  pleased  the  man  to  tell  his  brief 

And  rather  mournful  story, — 
Old  Bliss's  school  had  come  to  grief, 

And  Bliss  had  "  gone  to  glory." 
Fell'd  were  his   trees,   his   house   was 
razed, 

And  what  less  keenly  pain'd  me, 
A  venerable  donkey  grazed 

Exactly  where  he  caned  me. 

And  where  have  all  my  playmates  sped, 

Whose  ranks  were  once  so  serried  ? 
Why  some  are  wed,  and  some  are  dead, 

And  some  are  only  buried  ; 
Frank  Petre,  then  so  full  of  fun, 

Is  now  St.  Blaise's  prior, 
And  Travers,  the  attorney's  son 

Is  member  for  the  shire. 


l6o  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Dull  maskers  we — Life's  festival 

Enchants  the  blithe  new-comer  ; 
But  seasons  change  ; — oh  where  are  all 

Those  friendships  of  our  summer  ? 
Wan  pilgrims  flit  athwart  our  track, 

Cold  looks  attend  the  meeting  ; 
We  only  greet  them,  glancing  back, 

Or  pass  without  a  greeting. 

Old  Bliss  I  owe  some  rubs,  but  pride 

Constrains  me  to  postpone  'em, — 
Something  he  taught  me,  ere  he  died, 

About  nil  nisi  bonum. 
I've  met  with  wiser,  better  men, 

But  I  forgive  him  wholly  ; 
Perhaps  his  jokes  were  sad,  but  then 

He  used  to  storm  so  drolly. 

"  I  still  can  laugh  "  is  still  my  boast, 

But  mirth  has  sounded  gayer  ; 
And  which  provokes  my  laughter  most, 

The  preacher  or  the  player  ? 
Alack,  I  cannot  laugh  at  what 

Once  made  us  laugh  so  freely  ; 
For  Nestroy  and  Grassot  are  not — 

And  where  is  Mr.  Keeley  ? 


THE  JESTER'S   MORAL.  l6l 

I'll  join  St.  Blaise  (a  verseman  fit, 

More  fit  than  I,  once  did  it) 
— /  shave   my  crown  ?      No,  Common 
Wit 

And  Common  Sense  forbid  it. 
I'd  sooner  dress  your  Little  Miss 

As  Paulet  shaves  his  poodles  ! 
As  soon  propose  for  Betsy  Bliss, 

Or  get  proposed  for  Boodle's. 

We  prate  of  Life's  illusive  dyes, 

And  yet  fond  Hope  misleads  us ; 
We  all  believe  we  near  the  prize, 

Till  some  fresh  dupe  succeeds  us ! 
And  yet,  tho'  Life's  a  riddle,  though 

No  clerk  has  yet  explain'd  it, 
I  still  can  hope  ;  for  well  I  know 

That  Love  has  thus  ordain'd  it. 

PARIS,  November,  1864. 


ADVICE  TO  A  POET. 

Now  ifyotfll  only  take,  perchance 
But  half  the  pains  to  learn,  that  we 

Still  take  to  hide  our  ignorance — 
Ho-w  very  clever  you  will  be  / 

DEAR  Poet,  do  not  rhyme  at  all ! 

But  if  you  must,  don't  tell  your  neigh- 
bours, 
Or  five  in  six,  who  cannot  scrawl, 

Will  dub  you  donkey  for  your  labours. 
This  epithet  may  seem  unjust 

To  you,  or  any  verse-begetter  : 
Must  we  admit — I  fear  we  must — 

That  nine  in  ten  deserve  no  better  ? 

Then  let  them  bray  with  leathern  lungs, 
And  match  you  with  the   beast  that 

grazes 
Or  wag  their    heads,    and   hold    their 

tongues, 
Or  damn  you  with  the  faintest  praises- 


ADVICE   TO   A   POET.  163 

Be  patient,  but  be  sure  you  won't 

Win  vogue  without  extreme  vexation  : 

Yet  hope  for  sympathy, — but  don't 
Expect  it  from  a  near  relation. 

When     strangers     first     approved    my 

books, 
My  kindred  marvell'd  what  the  praise 

meant ; 

Now  they  wear  more  respectful  looks, 
But  can't  get  over  their  amazement. 
Indeed,  they've  power  to  wound,  beyond 

That  wielded  by  the  fiercest  hater, 
For  all  the  time  they  are  so  fond — 
Which  makes  the  aggravation  greater. 
•*•*#•* 

Most  warblers  only  half  express 

The  threadbare  thoughts  they  feebly 

utter  : 

Now  if  they  tried  for  something  less, 
They  might  not  sink,  and  gasp,  and 

flutter. 

Fly  low  at  first, — then  mount,  and  win 
The  niche  for  which  the  town's  con- 
testing ; 


164    POEMS   OF    FREDERICK    LOCKER. 

And  never  mind  your  kith  and  kin — 
But  never  give  them  cause  for  jesting. 

Hold  Pegasus  in  hand,  control 
A  taste  for  ornament  ensnaring  ; 

Simplicity  is  yet  the  soul 

Of  all   that   time    deems   worth    the 
sparing. 

Long  lays  are  not  a  lively  sport, 
So  clip  your  own  to  half  a  quarter. 

If  readers  now  don't  think  them  short, 

Posterity  will  cut  them  shorter. 
ft  «  *  * 

I  look  on  bards  who  whine  for  praise 
With  feelings  of  profoundest  pity  : 

They  hunger  for  the  Poet's  bays, 
And  swear  one's  waspish  when  one's 
witty. 

The  critic's  lot  is  passing  hard — 

Between  ourselves,  I  think  reviewers, 

When  call'd  to  truss  a  crowing  bard, 

Should  not  be  sparing  of  the  skewers. 
#•**•* 

We  all,  the  foolish  and  the  wise, 
Regard  our  verse  with  fascination, 


ADVICE   TO    A    POET.  165 

Through  asinine-paternal  eyes, 
And  hues  of  fancy's  own  creation  ; 

Prythee,  then,  check  that  passing  sneer 
At  any  self-deluded  rhymer 

Who  thinks  his  beer  (the  smallest  beer  !) 

Has  all  the  gust  of  alt  hochheimer. 

*  *  *  * 

Oh,  for  the  Poet-Voice  that  swells 

To  lofty  truths,  or  noble  curses — 
I  only  wear  the  cap  and  bells, 

And  yet  some  tears  are  in  my  verses. 
I  softly  trill  my  sparrow  reed, 

Pleased   if  but   one   should  like   the 

twitter  ; 
Humbly  I  lay  it  down  to  heed 

A  music  or  a  minstrel  fitter. 


AN  ASPIRATION. 

Alas,  hoiv  deplorably  love  has  miscarried, — 

The  stripling  is  dead,  and  the  -virgin  is  married  > 

I  ASK'D  Miss  Di,  who  loves  her  sheep, 
To  look  at  this  Arcadian  peep 

Of  April  leafage,  pure  and  beamy  : 
A  pair  of  girls  in  hoops  and  nets 
Have  found  a  pair  of  woolly  pets, 

And  all  is   young,   and  nice,   and 
dreamy. 

Miss  Di  has  kindly  eyes  for  all 
That's  pretty,  quaint,  and  pastoral  : 

Said  she,  "  These  ladies  sentimental 
Are  lucky,  in  a  world  of  shams, 
To  find  a  pair  of  luckless  lambs 

So  white,  and  so  extremely  gentle." 

I  heard  her  with  surprise  and  doubt, 
For  though  I  don't  much  care  about 
The  world  she  spoke  with  such  dis- 
dain of  i 


AN    ASPIRATION.  167 

And  though  the  lamb  I  mostly  see 
Is  overdone,  it  seem'd  to  me 

That  these  had  little  to   complain 
of. 

When  Beings  of  the  fairer  sex 
Arrange   their  white   arms   round    our 

necks, 

We    are,    we   ought   to   be   enrap- 
tured— 

Would  that  I  were  your  lamb,  Miss  Di, 
Or  even  yon  poor  butterfly, 

With  some   small  hope    of  being 
captured. 


A  GARDEN  IDYLL. 

There  are  plenty  of  roses  (the  patriarch  speaks") 
But  alas  not  for  nte,  on  your  lips  and  your  cheeks  / 
Sweet  Maiden,  rose  laden — enough  and  to  spare — 
Spare,  O  spare  me  the  rose  that  you  wear  in  your 
hair. 

WE  have  loiter'd   and   laugh'd  in  the 

flowery  croft, 

We  have  met  under  wintry  skies  ; 
Her  voice  is  the  dearest  voice,  and  soft 

Is  the  light  in  her  wistful  eyes  ; 
It  is  sweet  in  the  silent  woods,  among 

Gay  crowds,  or  in  any  place 
To  hear  her  voice,  to  gaze  on  her  young 
Confiding  face. 

For  ever  may  roses  divinely  blow, 
And  wine-dark  pansies  charm 

By  the  prim  box  path  where  I  felt  the 

glow 
Of  her  dimpled,  trusting  arm, 


A   GARDEN   IDYLL.  169 

And  the  sweep  of  her  silk  as  she  turn'd 

and  smiled 

A  smile  as  fair  as  her  pearls  ; 
The  breeze  was  in  love  with  the  darling 

child, 
As  it  moved  her  curls. 

She  show'd  me  her  ferns  and  woodbine 

sprays, 

Foxglove  and  jasmine  stars, 
A  mist  of  blue  in  the  beds,  a  blaze 

Of  red  in  the  celadon  jars  : 
And  velvety  bees  in  convolvulus  bells, 

And  roses  of  bountiful  June — 
Oh,  who  would  think  the  summer  spells 
Could  die  so  soon  ! 

For  a  glad  song  came  from  the  milking 

shed, 

On  a  wind  of  that  summer  south, 
And   the  green  was  golden   above  her 

head, 

And  a  sunbeam  kiss'd  her  mouth  ; 
Sweet  were  the  lips  where  <hat  sunbeam 
dwelt— 


I7O  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

And  the  wings  of  Time  were  fleet 
As  I  gazed ;  and  neither  spoke,  for  we 

felt 
Life  was  so  sweet ! 

And  the  odorous  limes  were  dim  above 

As  we  leant  on  a  drooping  bough  ; 
And   the  darkling   air  was  a  breath  of 

love, 

And  a  witching  thrush  sang  "  Now  !  " 
For  the  sun  dropt  low,  and  the  twilight 

grew 

As  we  listen'd,  and  sigh'd,  and  leant — 
That  day  was  the  sweetest  day — and  we 

knew 
What  the  sweetness  meant. 

1868. 


ST.  JAMES'S  STREET. 

(SEE  NOTE.) 

ST.  JAMES'S  STREET,  of  classic  fame, 

The  finest  people  throng  it. 
St.  James's  Street  ?     I  know  the  name, 

I  think  I've  passed  along  it ! 
Why,  that's  where  Sacharissa  sigh'd 

When  Waller  read  his  ditty ; 
Where  Byron  lived,  and  Gibbon  died, 

And  Alvanley  was  witty. 

A  famous  street !     To  yonder  Park 

Young  Churchill  stole  in  class-time  ; 
Come,  gaze  on  fifty  men  of  mark, 

And  then  recall  the  past  time. 
The  plats  at  White's,  the  play  at  Crock's, 

The  bumpers  to  Miss  Gunning  ; 
The  bonhomie  of  Charlie  Fox, 

And  Selwyn's  ghastly  funning. 


172  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

The  dear  old  street  of  clubs  and  cribs, 

As  north  and  south  it  stretches, 
Still  seems  to  smack  of  Rolliad  squibs, 

And  Gillray's  fiercer  sketches  ; 
The  quaint   old   dress,    the   grand  old 
style, 

The  tnots,  the  racy  stories ; 
The  wines,  the  dice,  the  wit,  the  bile — 

The  hate  of  Whigs  and  Tories. 

At  dusk,  when  I  am  strolling  there, 

Dim  forms  will  rise  around  me  ; — 
Lepel  flits  past  me  in  her  chair, 

And  Congreve's  airs  astound  me  ! 
And  once  Nell  Gwynne,  a  frail  young 
sprite, 

Look'd  kindly  when  I  met  her  ; 
I  shook  my  head,  perhaps, — but  quite 

Forgot  to  quite  forget  her. 

The  street  is  still  a  lively  tomb 
For  rich,  and  gay,  and  clever  ; — 

The  crops  of  dandies  bud  and  bloom, 
And  die  as  fast  as  ever. 


ST.    JAMES'S   STREET.  173 

Now  gilded  youth  loves  cutty  pipes, 
And  slang  that's  rather  scaring, — 

It  can't  approach  its  prototypes 
In  taste,  or  tone,  or  bearing. 

In  BrummeH's  day  of  buckle  shoes, 

Lawn  cravats,  and  roll  collars, 
They'd  fight,  and  woo,  and  bet — and  lose 

Like  gentlemen  and  scholars  : 
I'm  glad  young  men  should  go  the  pace, 

I  half  forgive  Old  Rapid  ; 
These   louts   disgrace   their  name  and 
race — 

So  vicious  and  so  vapid  ! 

Worse  times  may  come.     Bon  ton,  in- 
deed, 

Will  then  be  quite  forgotten, 
And  all  we  much  revere  will  speed 

From  ripe  to  worse  than  rotten  : 
Let    grass    then   sprout    between    yon 
stones, 

And  owls  then  roost  at  Boodle's, 
For  Echo  will  hurl  back  the  tones 

Of  screaming  Yankee  Doodles. 


174  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

I  love  the  haunts  of  Old  Cockaigne, 

Where  wit  and  wealth   were    squan- 

der'd  ; 
The  halls  that  tell  of  hoop  and  train, 

Where  grace  and  rank  have  wander'd  ; 
Those  halls  where  ladies  fair  and  leal 

First  ventured  to  adore  me  ! — 
Something  of  that  old  love  I  feel 

For  this  old  street  before  me. 

1867. 


ROTTEN   ROW. 

Most  people  like  to  bill  and  coo, 

And  some  have  done  it  for  the  last  time  ; 
So,  happy  folk,  we  envy  you 

Your  pleasant  and  improving  pastime. 

I  HOPE  I'm  fond  of  much  that's  good, 
As  well  as  much  that's  gay  ; 

I'd  like  the  country  if  I  could  ; 
I  love  the  Park  in  May  : 

And  when  I  ride  in  Rotten  Row, 

I  wonder  why  they  call'd  it  so. 

A  lively  scene  on  turf  and  road  ; 

The  crowd  is  bravely  drest : 
The  Ladies'  Mile  has  overflow'd, 

The  chairs  are  in  request  : 
The  nimble  air,  so  soft,  so  clear, 
Hardly  can  stir  a  ringlet  here. 

I'll  halt  beneath  the  pleasant  trees, 
And  drop  my  bridle-rein, 


1 76  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

And,  quite  alone,  indulge  at  ease 

The  philosophic  vein  : 
I'll  moralise  on  all  I  see — 
Yes,  it  was  all  arranged  for  me ! 

Forsooth,  and  on  a  livelier  spot 

The  sunbeam  never  shines. 
Fair  ladies  here  can  talk  and  trot 

With  statesmen  and  divines  : 
Could  I  have  chosen,  I'd  have  been 
A  Duke,  a  Beauty,  or  a  Dean. 

What  grooms !     What   gallant   gentle- 
men ! 

What  well-appointed  hacks  ! 
What  glory  in  their  pace,  and  then 

What  beauty  on  their  backs  ! 
My  Pegasus  would  never  flag 
If  weighted  as  my  lady's  nag. 

But  where  is  now  the  courtly  troop 
That  once  rode  laughing  by  ? 

I  miss  the  curls  of  Cantilupe, 
The  laugh  of  Lady  Di : 

They  all  could  laugh  from  night  to  morn, 

And  Time  has  laugh'd  them  all  to  scorn. 


ROTTEN    ROW.  177 

I  then  could  frolic  in  the  van 
With  dukes  and  dandy  earls  ; 

Then  I  was  thought  a  nice  young  man 
By  rather  nice  young  girls  ! 

I've  half  a  mind  to  join  Miss  Browne, 

And  try  one  canter  up  and  down. 

Ah,  no— I'll  linger  here  a  while, 
And  dream  of  days  of  yore  ; 

For  me  bright  eyes  have  lost  the  smile , 
The  sunny  smile  they  wore  : — 

Perhaps  they  say,  what  I'll  allow, 

That  I'm  not  quite  so  handsome  now. 

1867. 


A  NICE  CORRESPONDENT! 

An  angel  at  noon,  she's  a  woman  at  night. 

All  softness,  and  sweetness,  and  love,  and  delight. 

THE  glow  and  the  glory  are  plighted 
To  darkness,  for  evening  is  come  ; 
The  lamp  in  Glebe  Cottage  is  lighted, 
The  birds   and   the    sheep-bells    are 

dumb. 
I'm  alone  for  the  others  have  flitted 

To  dine  with  a  neighbour  at  Kew  : 
I'm  alone,  but  I'm  not  to  be  pitied — • 
I'm  thinking  of  you  ! 

I  wish  you  were  here  !     Were  I  duller 
Than  dull,  you'd  be  dearer  than  dear  ; 

I  am  drest  in  your  favourite  colour — 
Dear  Fred,  how  I  wish  you  were  here  ! 

I  am  wearing  my  lazuli  necklace, 
The  necklace  you  fasten'd  askew  ! 

Was  there  ever  so  rude  or  so  reckless 
A  darling  as  you  ? 


A  NICE  CORRESPONDENT!       179 

I  want  you  to  come  and  pass  sentence 
On  two  or  three  books  with  a  plot ; 
Of  course  you  know  "Janet's  Repent- 
ance"? 

I'm  reading  Sir  Waverley  Scott, 
The  story  of  Edgar  and  Lucy, 

How  thrilling,  romantic,  and  true  ! 
The  Master  (his  bride  was  a  goosey ! ) 
Reminds  me  of  you. 

They    tell    me     Cockaigne     has     been 

crowning 

A  Poet  whose  garland  endures  ; 
It  was  you  that  first  told  me  of  Brown- 
ing,— 

That  stupid  old  Browning  of  yours  ! 
His  vogue  and  his  verve  are  alarming, 

I'm  anxious  to  give  him  his  due, 
But,  Fred,  he's  not  nearly  so  charming 
A  poet  as  you  ! 

I  heard  how  you  shot  at  The  Beeches, 
I  saw  how  you  rode  Chanticleer, 

I  have  read  the  report  of  your  speeches, 
And  echo'd  the  echoing  cheer. 


180  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

There's   a  whisper   of    hearts   you   are 

breaking, 

Dear  Fred,  I  believe  it,  I  do ! — 
Small  marvel  that  Folly  is  making 
Her  idol  of  you  ! 

Alas  for  the  World,  and  its  dearly 

Bought  triumph,  its  fugitive  bliss  ; 
Sometimes  I  half  wish  I  were  merely 

A  plain  or  a  penniless  miss  ; 
But,  perhaps,  one  is  best  with  a  "  meas- 
ure 

Of  pelf,"  and  I'm  not  sorry,  too, 
That  I'm  pretty,  because  'tis  a  pleasure, 
My  darling,  to  you  ! 

Your  whim  is  for  frolic  and  fashion, 
Your  taste  is  for  letters  and  art ; — 

This  rhyme  is  the  commonplace  passion 
That  glows  in  a  fond  woman's  heart  : 

Lay  it  by  in  a  dainty  deposit 
For  relics — we  all  have  a  few  ! 

Love,  some  day  they'll  print  it,  because  it 
Was  written  to  you. 

1868. 


AN  OLD  BUFFER. 

BUFFER. — A  cushion  or  apparatus,  with  strong 
springs,  to  deaden  the  buff  or  concussion  between  a 
moving  body  and  one  on  which  it  strikes. —  Webster's 
English  Dictionary. 

"  If  Blossom's  a  sceptic,  or  saucy,  P II  search, 
And  Pll  find   her  a    wholesome  corrective — in 
Church  !  " 

MAMMA  loquitur. 

"A  KNOCK-ME-DOWN  sermon,  and 
worthy  of  Birch," 

Says  I  to  my  wife,  as  we  toddle  from 
church  ; 

"  Convincing  indeed!  "  is  the  lady's  re- 
mark ; 

4 'How  logical,  too,  on  the  size  of  the 
Ark  !  " 

Then  Blossom  cut  in,  without  begging 
our  pardons, 

"  Pa,  was  it  as  big  as  the  'Logical  Gar- 
dens ?  " 


182  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

"  Miss  Blossom,"  says  I  to  my  dearest 
of  dearies, 

"  Papa  disapproves  of  nonsensical  que- 
ries ; 

The  Ark  was  an  Ark,  and  had  people  to 
build  it, 

Enough  we  are  told  Noah  built  it  and 
fill'd  it  : 

Mamma  does  not  ask  how  he  caught  his 
opossums." 

— Said  she,  "  That  remark  is  as  foolish 
as  Blossom's  !  " 


Thus  talking  and  walking,  the  time  is 

beguiled 
By  my  orthodox  wife  and  my  sceptical 

child  ; 

I  act  as  their  buffer,  whenever  I  can, 
And  you  see   I'm  of  use    as   a  family 

man. 
I  parry  their  blows,   I    have  plenty  to 

do— 
I  think  that  the  child's  are  the  worst  of 

the  two  ! 


AN   OLD   BUFFER.  183 

My  wife  has    a    healthy  aversion    for 

sceptics, 
She  vows  they  are  bad — they  are  only 

dyspeptics ! 
May  Blossom  prove  neither  the  one  nor 

the  other, 
But  do   as    she's  bid  by  her   excellent 

mother. — 
She  thinks  I'm  a  Solon  ;  perhaps,  if  I 

huff  her, 
She'll    think    I'm    a— something   that's 

denser  and  tougher. 


TO  LINA  OSWALD. 
(AGED  FIVE  YEARS.) 

When  vapid  poets  vex  thee  sore. 

Thy  Mentor 's  old,  and  would  remind  thee, 
That  if  thy  grie/s  are  all  before, 

Thy  pleasures  are  not  all  behind  thee. 

I  TUMBLE  out  of  bed  betimes 
To  make  my  love  these  toddling  rhymes  ; 
And  meet  the  hour,  and  meet  the  place 
To  bless  her  blythe  good-morning  face. 
I  send  her  all  this  heart  can  store  ; 
I  seem  to  see  her  as  before, 
An  angel-child,  divinely  fair, 
With  meek  blue  eyes,  and  golden  hair, 
Curls  tipt  with  changing  light,  that  shed 
A  little  glory  round  her  head. 

Has  poet  ever  sung  or  seen  a 
Sweeter,  wiser  child  than  Lina  ? 
Blue  are  her  sash  and  snood,  and  blue'u 
The  hue  of  her  bewitching  shoes  ; 
But,  saving  these,  she's  virgin  dight, 
A  happy  creature  clad  in  white. 


TO   LINA  OSWALD.  185 

Again  she  stands  beneath  the  boughs, 
Reproves  the  pup,  and  feeds  the  cows  ; 
Unvexed  by  rule,  unscared  by  ill, 
She  wanders  at  her  own  sweet  will ; 
For  what  grave  fiat  could  confine 
My  little  charter'd  libertine, 
Yet  free  from  feeling  or  from  seeing 
The  burthen  of  her  moral  being  ? 

But  change  must  come,  and  forms  and 

dyes 

Will  change  before  her  changing  eyes  ; 
She'll    learn  to  blush,  and  hope,  and 

fear — 
And  where  shall  I  be  then,  my  dear  ? 

Little  gossip,  set  apart 
But  one  small  corner  of  thy  heart ; 
Still  there  is  one  not  quite  employ'd, 
So  let  me  find  and  fill  that  void  ; 
Run  then,  and  jump,  and   laugh,  suul 

play, 
But  love  me  though  I'm  far  away. 

BROOMHALL,  September,  1868. 


ON  "  A   PORTRAIT   OF  A  LADY." 

BY  THE  PAINTER. 

I  gathered  it  wet  for  my  own  sweet  Pet 
As  we  whisper1  d  and  walked  apart : 

She  gave  me  that  rose,  it  is  fragrant  yet, — 
And  oh,  it  is  near  my  heart. 

SHE  is  good,  for  she  must  have  a  guile- 
less mind 

With  that  noble,  trusting  air  ; 
A  rose  with  a  passionate  heart  is  twined 

In  her  crown  of  golden  hair. 
Some   envy  the   cross  that  caressingly 

dips 

In  her  bosom,  and  some  had  died 
For  the  promise  of  bliss  on  her  red,  red 

lips, 
And  her  thousand  charms  beside. 

She  is  lovely  and  good  ;  she  has  peerless 

eyes  ;— 
A  haunting  shape.     She  stands 


ON    "  A   PORTRAIT   OF   A   LADY."    187 

In  a  blossoming   croft,  under  kindling 

skies  ; 

The  weirdest  of  faery  lands. 
There  are  sapphire  hills  by  the  far-off 

seas, 

Grave  laurels,  and  tender  limes  ; 
They  tremble  and  glow  in  the  amorous 

breeze, 
— My  Beauty  is  up  betimes. 

A  bevy  of  idlers  press  around, 

To  wonder,  and  wish,  and  loll ; 
"  Now  who  is  the  painter,  and  where 
has  he  found 

The  woman  we  all  extol, 
With  her  fresh  young  mouth,  and  her 
candid  brow, 

And  a  bloom  as  of  bygone  days  ? " 
How  natural  sounds  their  worship,  how 

Impertinent  seems  their  praise  ! 

I  stand  aloof  ;  I  can  well  afford 

To  pardon  the  babble  and  crush 
As  they  praise  a  work   (do  I  need  re- 
ward ?) 


1 88  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

That  has  grown  beneath  my  brush  : 
Aloof — and,  in  fancy,  again  I  hear 

The  music  clash  in  the  hall, 
When  they  crown'd  her  Queen  of  their 
dance  and  cheer, 

— She  is  mine,  and  Queen  of  all ! 

Yes,   my   thoughts    are    away   to    that 

happy  day, 

A  few  short  months  agone, 
When  we  left  the  games,  and  the  dance, 

to  stray 

Through  the  dewy  flowers,  alone. 
My  feet  are  again  among  flowers  divine, 

Away  from  the  noise  and  glare, 
When  I  kiss'd  her  mouth,  and  her  lips 

press'd  mine, — 
And  I  fasten'd  that  rose  in  her  hair. 

1868. 


THE  MUSIC  PALACE. 

Shall  you  go  ?    I  don't  ask  you  to  seek  it  or  shun  it  ; 
I  went  on  an  impulse,  Pve  been  and  I've  done  it. 

So  this  is  a  music-hall,  easy  and  free, 
A  temple  for  singing,  and  dancing,  and 

spree  ; 
The  band  is  at  Faust,  and  the  benches 

are  filling, 
And  all  that  I  have  can  be  had  for  a 

shilling. 

The  senses  are   charm'd  by  the  sights 

and  the  sounds  ; 

A  spirit  of  affable  gladness  abounds  : 
With  zest  we  applaud,  and   as   madly 

recall 
The  singer,  the  cellar- flap- dancer,  and 

all. 

What  Vision  comes  on  with  a  wreath 
and  a  lyre  ? 


190  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

A  creature  of  impulse  in  scanty  attire  ; 

She  plays  the  good  sprite  in  a  dream- 
haunted  dell, 

She  has  ankles  !  and  eyes  like  a  wistful 
gazelle. 

A  clown  sings  a  song,  and  a  droll  cuts  a 

caper, 
And  then  she  dissolves  in  a  rose-colour'd 

vapour : 
Then  an  imp  on  a  rope  is  a  painfully 

pleasant 
Sensation  for  all  the  mammas  that  are 

present. 

But  who  is  the  damsel  that  smiles  to  me 
there 

With  so  reckless,  indeed,  so  defiant  an 
air? 

She  is  bright — that  she's  pretty  is  more 
than  I'll  say. 

Is  she  happy?  At  least  she's  exceed- 
ingly gay. 

It  seems  to  me  now,  as  we  pass  up  the 
street, 


THE   MUSIC   PALACE.  IQI 

Is  Nell  worse  than  I,  or  the  worthies  we 
meet? 

She  is  reckless,  her  conduct's  exceed- 
ingly sad — 

A  coin  may  be  light,  but  it  need  not  be 
bad. 


Heaven  help  thee,  poor  child  :   now  a 

graceless  and  gay  thing, 
You  once  were  your  mother's,  her  pet 

and  her  plaything. 
Where  was  your  home  ?     Are  the  stars 

that  look  down 
On  that  home,  the  cold  stars   of  this 

pitiless  town  ? 

The  stars  are  a  riddle  we  never  may 
read — 

I  prest  her  poor  hand,  and  I  bade  her 
Godspeed  ! 

She  left  me  a  heart  overladen  with  sor- 
row— 

You  may  hear  Nelly's  laugh  at  the 
palace  to-morrow  ! 


192  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Ah !  some  go  to  revel,  and  some  go  to 

rue, 
For  some  go  to  ruin.     There's   Paul's 

tolling  two. 


A  TERRIBLE  INFANT. 

I  RECOLLECT  a  nurse  call'd  Ann, 
Who  carried  me  about  the  grass, 

And  one  fine  day  a  fine  young  man 
Came  up,  and  kiss'd  the  pretty  lass  : 

She  did  not  make  the  least  objection  ! 

Thinks  I,  "Aha! 
When  lean  talk  Til  tell  Mamma." 
— And  that's  my  earliest  recollection. 


WITH  A  BOOK  OF  SMALL 
SKETCHES. 

IN  days  gone  by,  and  year  by  year, 

I  gleaned  the  sketchlets  garnered  here  : 

Some  pains  they  cost   me,  much  shoe 

leather 

Before  they  all  were  got  together. 
Dear  children,  I  must  flit  anon  ; 
O,  guard  them  kindly  when  I'm  gone. 


AT  HURLINGHAM. 

THIS  was  dear  Willy's  brief  despatch, 

A  curt  and  yet  a  cordial  summons ; — 
"  Do  come  !  I'm  in  to-morrow's  match, 
And  see  us  whip  the  Faithful  Com- 
mons" 

We  trundled  out  behind  the  bays, 
Through  miles  and  miles  of  brick  and 

garden  ; 
Mamma    was     drest    in     mauve     and 

maize, — 
Of  course  I  wore  my  Dolly  Vardcn. 

A  charming  scene,  and  lively  too, 
The  paddock's  full,  the  band  is  play- 
ing 
Boulotte's  song  in  Barbe  bleue  ; 

And  what  are  all  these  people  saying  ? 
They  flirt!   they  bet!      There's  Linda 
Reeves 


AT   HURLINGHAM.  195 

Too  lovely  !    I'd  give  worlds  to  borrow 
Her  yellow  rose  with  russet  leaves  ! — 
I'll  wear  a  yellow  rose  to-morrow  ! 

And  there  are  May  and  Algy  Meade  ; 

How  proud  she  looks  on  her  promo- 
tion ! 
The  ring  must  be  amused  indeed, 

And  edified  by  such  devotion  ! 
I  wonder  if  she  ever  guess'd  ! 

I  wonder  if  he'll  call  on  Friday  ! 
I  often  wonder  which  is  best ! — 

I  only  hope  my  hair  is  tidy  ! 

Some  girls  repine,  and  some  rejoice, 
And  some  get   bored,  but   I'm  con- 
tented 
To  make  my  destiny  my  choice, — 

I'll  never  dream  that  I've  repented. 
There's   something    sad    in  loved  and 

cross'd, 
For  all  the  fond,  fond  hope  that  rings 

it  : 
There's  something  sweet  in  "  loved  and 

lost  "— 
And  Oh,  how  sweetly  Alfred  sings  it ! 


196  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

I'll  own  I'm  bored  with  handicaps  !  — 
Bluerocks  /  (they  always  are  " 


With  May,  a  little  bit,  perhaps,  — 
And  yon  Faust's  teufelshund  is  shock- 

ing ! 
Bang  .  .  .  bang  .  .  .  !    That's  Willy  ! 

There's  his  bird, 
Blithely  it   cleaves    the   skies   above 

me  ! 

He's  miss'd  all  ten  !    He's  too  absurd  !  — 
I  hope  he'll  always,  always  love  me  ! 

We've   lost  !      To   tea,   then    back    to 
town  ; 

The  crowd  is  laughing,  eating,  drink- 

ing : 
The  moon's  eternal  eyes  look  down,  — 

Of  what  can  yon  sad  moon  be  thinking 
Oh,  but  for  some  good  fairy's  wand,  — 

This  pigeoncide  is  worse  than  silly, 
But  still  I'm  very,  very  fond 

Of  Hurlingham,  and  tea,—  and  Willy. 


UNREFLECTING  CHILDHOOD. 


The  world  would  lose  its  finest  joys 
Without  its  little  girls  and  boys  ; 
Their  careless  glee,  and  simple  ruth, 
And  trust,  and  innocence,  and  truth. 
— Ah,  what  would  your  poor  J>oet  do 
Without  such  little  folk  as  you  ? 


IT  is,  indeed,  a  little  while 

Since  you  were  born,  my  happy  pet ; 
Your  future  beckons  with  a  smile, 

Your  bygones  don't  exist  as  yet. 
Is  all  the  world  with  beauty  rife  ? 

Are  you  a  little  bird  that  sings 
Her  simple  gratitude  for  life, 
And  lovely  things  ? 

The  ocean,  and  the  waning  moons, 
And  starry  skies,  and  starry  dells, 

And  winter  sport,  and  golden  Junes, 
Art,  and  divinest  Beauty-spells  : 


198    POEMS   OF   FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

Festa  and  song,  and  frolic  wit, 

And  banter,  and  domestic  mirth, — 
They  all  are  ours  ! — dear  child,  is  it 
A  pleasant  earth  ? 

And  poet  friends,  and  poesy, 

And  precious  books,  for  any  mood  : 

And  then  that  best  of  company, 
Those  graver  thoughts  in  solitude 

That  hold  us  fast  and  never  pall : 
Then  there  is  You,  my  own,  my  fair- 

And  I  ...  soon  I  must  leave  it  all, 
— And  much  you  care. 

1871. 


LITTLE  DINKY. 

(A   RHYME  OF   LESS  THAN  ONE.) 

THE  hair  she  means  to  have  is  gold, 
Her  eyes  are  blue,  she's  twelve  weeks 
old, 

Plump  are  her  fists  and  pinky. 
She  fluttered  down  in  lucky  hour 
From  some  blue  deep  in  yon  sky  bower— 

I  call  her  LITTLE  DINKY. 

A  Tiny  now,  ere  long  she'll  please 
To  totter  at  my  parent-knees, 

And  crow,  and  try  to  chatter  : 
And  soon  she'll  take  to  fair  white  frocks, 
And  frisk  about  in  shoes  and  socks, — 

Her  totter  changed  to  patter. 

And  soon  she'll  play,  ay,  soon  enough, 
At  cowslip-ball  and  blindman's-buff ; 


20O    POEMS   OF   FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

And,  some  day,  we  shall  find  her 
Grow  weary  of  her  toys — indeed 
SheUl  fling  them  all  aside  to  heed 

A  footstep  close  behind  her. 

And  years  to  come  she'll  still  be  rich 
In  what  is  left,  the  joys  with  which 

Our  love  can  aye  supply  us  ; 
For  hand  in  hand  we'll  sit  us  down 
Right  cheerfully  and  let  the  town— 

This  foolish  town,  go  by  us. 

Dinky,  we  must  resign  our  toys 
To  younger  girls ',  to  finer  boys, — 

But  we'll  not  care  a  feather  : 
For  then  (reflection's  not  regret} 
Tho>  you'll  be  rather  old!  we' II yet 

Be  boy  and  girl  together. 

As  I  was  climbing  Ludgate  Hill 
I  met  a  goose  who  dropt  a  quill, — 

You  see  my  thumb  is  inky  ; — 
I  fell  to  scribble  there  and  then, 
And  this  is  how  I  came  to  pen 

These  rhymes  on  LITTLE  DINKY. 


GERTRUDE'S  NECKLACE. 

As  Gerty  skipt  from  babe  to  girl, 
Her  necklace  lengthen'd,  pearl  by  pearl ; 
Year  after  year  it  grew,  and  grew, 
For  every  birthday  gave  her  two. 
Her  neck  is  lovely,  soft  and  fair, 
And  now  her  necklace  glimmers  there. 

So  cradled,  let  it  sink  and  rise, 
And  all  her  graces  emblemize. 
Perchance  this  pearl,  without  a  speck, 
Once  was  as  warm  on  Sappho's  neck  ;— 
Where  are  the  happy,  twilight  pearls 
That  braided  Beatrice's  curls  ? 

Is  Gerty  loved  ? — Is  Gerty  loth  ? 
Or,  if  she's  either,  is  she  both  ? 
She's  fancy  free,  but  sweeter  far 
Than  many  plighted  maidens  are  : 
Will  Gerty  smile  us  all  away, 
And  still  be  Gerty  ?     Who  can  say  ? 


202    POEMS   OF   FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

But  let  her  wear  her  precious  toy, 

And  I'll  rejoice  to  see  her  joy  : 

Her  bauble's  only  one  degree 

Less  frail,  less  fugitive  than  we  ; 

For  time,  ere  long,  will  snap  the  skein, 

And  scatter  all  the  pearls  again. 


GERTRUDE'S  GLOVE. 

Elle  avait  au  bout  de  ses  manches 
Une  paire  de  mains  si  blanches  ! 

SLIPS  of  a  kid-skin  deftly  sewn, 
A  scent  as  through  her  garden  blown, 
The  tender  hue  that  clothes  her  dove, 
All  these,  and  this  is  Gerty's  glove. 

A  glove  but  lately  dofft,  for  look — 
It  keeps  the  happy  shape  it  took 
Warm  from  her  touch  !     What  gave  the 

glow? 
And  where's  the  mould  that  shaped  it  so  ? 

It  clasp'd  the  hand,  so  pure,  so  sleek, 
Where  Gerty  rests  a  pensive  cheek, 
The  hand  that  when  the  light  wind  stirs, 
Reproves  those  laughing  locks  of  hers. 

You  fingers  four,  you  little  thumb ! 
Were  I  but  you,  in  days  to  come 
I'd  clasp,  and  kiss, — I'd  keep  her— go  ! 
And  tell  her  that  I  told  you  so. 
KlSSINGEN,  September,  1871. 


MABEL. 


AT  HER  WINDOW. 

AA,  minstrel,  hoiv  strange  is 
The  carol  you  sing  ! 

Let  Psyche,  mho  ranges 

The  garden  of  spring^ 

Remember  the  changes 

December  will  bring. 

BEATING  heart !  we  come  again 
Where  my  Love  reposes  : 

This  is  Mabel's  window-pane  ; 
These  are  Mabel's  roses. 

Is  she  nested  ?     Does  she  kneel 

In  the  twilight  stilly  ; 
Lily  clad  from  throat  to  heel, 

She,  my  virgin  lily  ? 

Soon  the  wan,  the  wistful  stars, 
Fading,  will  forsake  her  ; 


MABEL.  205 

Elves  of  light,  on  beamy  bars, 
Whisper  then,  and  wake  her. 

Let  this  friendly  pebble  plead 

At  her  flowery  grating. 
If  she  hear  me  will  she  heed  ? 

Mabel,  I  am  'waiting. 

Mabel  will  be  deck'd  anon, 

Zoned  in  bride's  apparel  ; 
Happy  zone  ! — Oh  hark  to  yon 

Passion-shaken  carol  ! 

Sing  thy  song,  thou  tranced  thrush, 
Pipe  thy  best,  thy  clearest ; — 

Hush,  her  lattice  moves,  O  hush — 
Dearest  Mabel  '.—dearest  .  .  . 

II. 

HER  MUFF. 

LIVELY  SHEPHERDESS. 

Now  mind, 

He'll  call  on  you  to-ntorrow  at  eleven, 
And  beg  that  you  will  dine  with  us  at  seven  ; 
If,  when  He  calls,  you  see  that  He  has  got 
His  green  umbrella,  then  you' II  know  He'll  not 
Be  going  to  the  House,  and  you'll  decline. 
But  if  He  hasn't  it,  you' II  come  and  dine. 


206  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER, 

HAPPY  SHEPHERD. 

But  if  it  rains  :  then  how  ?  and  where  ?  and  when  ? 
And  how  about  the  green  umbrella  then  ? 

LIVELY  SHEPHERDESS. 

Then  He'll  be  met,  thafs  all,  for  if  I  don't 
Choose  He  should  take  it,  why,  of  course  !  you  goose  ! 
He  won't. 

ARCADY. 

SHE'S  jealous  !  Does  it  grieve  me  ?  No ! 
I'm  glad  to  see  my  Mabel  so, 

Carina  mia  ! 
Poor  Puss  !     That  now  and   then   she 

draws 
Conclusions,  not  without  a  cause, 

Is  my  idea. 

She  loves  ;  and  I'm  prepared  to  prove 
That  jealousy  is  kin  to  love 

In  constant  women. 
My  jealous  Pussy  cut  up  rough 
The  day  before  I  bought  her  muff 

With  sable  trimming. 

These  tearful  darlings  think  to  quell  us 
By  being  so  divinely  jealous  ; 
But  I  know  better. 


MABEL.  207 

Hillo!   Who's  that  ?  A  damsel !  Come, 
I'll  follow  : — no,  I  can't,  for  some 
One  else  has  met  her. 

What  fun  !     He  looks  «  a  lad  of  grace." 
She  holds  her  muff  to  hide  her  face  ; 

They  kiss,— The  Sly  Puss  ! 
Hillo !     Her   muff,— it's    trimm'd  with 

sable!  .  . 
It's  like  the  muff  I  gave  to  Mabel !  .  .  . 

Goodl-o-r-d,  SHE'S   MY  PUSS  ! 


TO   LINA   OSWALD. 

(WITH  A  BIRTHDAY   LOCKET.) 

"My  darling  wants  to  see  you  soon" — 
/  bless  the  little  maid,  and  thank  her  ; 

To  do  her  bidding,  night  and  noon 
I  draw  on  Hope — Lovers  kindest  banker  ! 

YOUR  Sun  is  in  brightest  apparel, 
Your  birds  and  your  blossoms  are  gay, 

But  where  is  my  jubilant  carol 
To  welcome  so  joyous  a  day  ? 

I  sang  for  you  when  you  were  smaller, 
As  fair  as  a  fawn,  and  as  wild  : 

Now,  Lina,  you're  ten  and  you're  taller — 
You  elderly  child. 

I  knew  you  in  shadowless  hours, 

When   thought    never   came   with    a 
smart ; 

You  then  were  the  pet  of  your  flowers, 
And  joy  was  the  child  of  your  heart. 

I  ever  shall  love  you,  and  dearly  ! — 
I  think  when  you're  even  thirteen 


TO   LINA   OSWALD.  209 

You'll  still  have  a  heart,  and  not  merely 
A  flirting  machine ! 

And  when  time  shall  have  spoil'd  you  of 
*  passion, — 

Discrown'd  what  you  now  think  sub- 
lime, 
Oh,  I  swear  that  you'll  still  be  the  fashion, 

And  laugh  at  the  antics  of  time. 
To  love  you  will  then  be  no  duty  ; 

But  happiness  nothing  can  buy — 
There's   a    bud    in   your   garland,   my 
beauty, 

That  never  can  die. 

A  heart  may  be  bruised  and  not  bro- 
ken,— 

A  soul  may  despair  and  still  reck  ; — 
I  send  you,  dear  child,  a  poor  token 
Of  love,  for  your  dear  little  neck. 
The  heart  that  will  beat  just  below  it. 

Is  open  and  pure  as  your  brow — 
May  that  heart,  when  you  come  to  be- 
stow it, 

Be  happy  as  now. 
1869-1872. 


THE  REASON  WHY. 

ASK  why  I  love  the  roses  fair, 

And  whence  they  come  and  whose  they 

were  ; 

They  come  from  her,  and  not  alone, 
They  bring  her   sweetness    with   their 

own. 

Or  ask  me  why  I  love  her  so, 
I  know  not,  this  is  all  I  know, 
These  roses  bud  and  bloom,  and  twine 
As  she  round  this  fond  heart  of  mine. 

And  this  is  why  I  love  the  flowers, 
Once   they  were   hers,  they're  mine — 

they're  ours  ! 

I  love  her,  and  they  soon  will  die, 
And  now  you  know  the  reason  why. 


A  WINTER  FANTASY. 

December  has  brought  you  a  bonnie  May, — 
A  bonnie  sweetheart  is  bound  your  way  : 
He  is  coming — tho"1  you  little  ivot^ — 
You  are  waiting— yet  he  knows  it  not ! 

YOUR  veil   is   thick,    and   none   would 
know 

The  pretty  face  it  quite  obscures ; 
But  if  you  foot  it  through  the  snow, 

Distrust  those  little  boots  of  yours. 

The  tell-tale  snow,  a  sparkling  mould, 
Says  where  they  go  and  whence  they 

came, 

Lightly  they  touch  its  carpet  cold, 
And  where  they  touch  they  sign  your 
name. 

She  pass'd  beneath  yon  branches  bare, 
How  fair  her  face,  and  how  content ! 

I  only  know  her  face  was  fair, — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 


212  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Pipe,   robins,  pipe  ;  though  boughs  be 

bleak, 

Ye  are  her  winter  choristers  ; 
Whose  cheek  will  press  that  rose-cold 

cheek? 

What  lips  those  fresh  young  lips  of 
hers? 


THE  UNREALIZED  IDEAL. 

MY  only  love  is  always  near, — 

In  country  or  in  town 
I  see  her  twinkling  feet,  I  hear 

The  whisper  of  her  gown. 

She  foots  it  ever  fair  and  young, 
Her  locks  are  tied  in  haste, 

And  one  is  o'er  her  shoulder  flung, 
And  hangs  below  her  waist. 

She  ran  before  me  in  the  meads  ; 

And  down  this  world-worn  track 
She  leads  me  on  ;  but  while  she  leads 

She  never  gazes  back. 

And  yet  her  voice  is  in  my  dreams, 
To  witch  me  more  and  more  ; 

That  wooing  voice  !     Ah  me,  it  seems 
Less  near  me  than  of  yore. 


214    POEMS  OF   FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

Lightly  I  sped  when  hope  was  high, 
And  youth  beguiled  the  chase, — 

I  follow,  follow  still ;  but  I 
Shall  never  see  her  face. 


IT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN. 

A  FRIENDLY  bird  with  bosom  red 
Is  fluting  near  my  garden  seat ; 

Your  sky  is  fair  above  my  head, 
And  Tweed  rejoices  at  my  feet. 

The  squirrels  gambol  in  the  oak, 
All,  all  is  glad,  but  you  prefer 

To  linger  on  amid  the  smoke 
Of  stony-hearted  Westminster. 

Again  I  read  your  letter  through, — 
"  How  wonderful  is  fate's  decree, 

How  sweet  is  all  your  life  to  you, 
And  oh,  how  sad  is  mine  to  me." 

I  know  your  wail — who  knows  it  not  ? — 
HE  gave,— HE  taketh  that  HE  gave. 

Yours  is  the  lot,  the  common  lot, 
To  go  down  weeping  to  the  grave. 


2l6    POEMS  OF   FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

Sad  journey  to  a  dark  abyss, 

Meet  ending  of  your  sorrow  keen, — 

The  burden  of  My  dirge  is  this, 

And   this   My   woe, — //  might   have 
been  ! 

Dear  bird  !     Blithe  bird   that  sings  in 
frost 

Forgive  my  friend  if  he  is  sad  ; 
He  mourns  what  he  has  only  lost, — 

I  weep  what  I  have  never  had. 

LEES,  September  27,  1873. 


LOVE,  TIME,  AND  DEATH. 

AH  me,  dread  friends  of  mine — Love, 

Time,  and  Death  ! 
Sweet  Love  who  came  to  me  on  sheeny 

wing, 
And  gave  her  to  my  arms— her  lips,  her 

breath, 

And  all  her  golden  ringlets  clustering  : 
And  Time   who   gathers   in   the   flying 

years 
He  gave  me  all,  but  where  is   all  he 

gave? 
He  took  my  Love  and  left  me  barren 

tears,— 

Weary  and  lone  I  follow  to  the  grave. 
There  Death  will  end   this  vision  half 

divine, — 
Wan   Death,   who  waits   in    shadow 

evermore, 
And  silent,  ere  he  give  the  sudden  sign  ; 


2l8    POEMS   OF   FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

O,  gently  lead  me  thro'  thy  narrow 

door, 
Thou  gentle  Death,  thou  trustiest  friend 

of  mine, 

— Ah  me  for  Love   .    .    .   will  Death 
my  Love  restore  ? 


THE  OLD  STONEMASON. 

A  SHOWERY  day  in  early  spring— 

An  old  man  and  a  child 
Are  seated  near  a  scaffolding 

Where  marble  blocks  are  piled. 

His  clothes  are  stain'd  by  age  and  soil, 

As  hers  by  rain  and  sun  ; 
He  looks  as  if  his  days  of  toil 

Were  very  nearly  done. 

To  eat  his  dinner  he  had  sought 

A  staircase  proud  and  vast, 
And  here  the  duteous  child  had  brought 

His  scanty  noon  repast. 

A  worn-out  workman  needing  aid  ;  — 
A  blooming  child  of  light  ; — 

The  stately  palace  steps  ;— all  made 
A  most  pathetic  sight. 


220    POEMS   OF    FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

We  had  sought  shelter  from  the  storm, 

And  saw  this  lowly  pair, 
But  none  could  see  a  Shining  Form 

That  watch'd  beside  them  there. 

1874. 


A  RHYME  OF  ONE. 

Explain  why  childhood 's path  is  sown 
With  moral  and  scholastic  tin  tacks  ; 

Ere  sin  (Original)  was  known, 

Did  Adam  groan  beneath  the  syntax  ? 

You  sleep  upon  your  mother's  breast, 

Your  race  begun, 

A  welcome,  long  a  wish'd-for  guest, 
Whose  age  is  One. 

A  baby-boy,  you  wonder  why 

You  cannot  run ; 
You  try  to  talk — how  hard  you  try  ! — 

You're  only  One. 

Ere  long  you  won't  be  such  a  dunce  ; 

You'll  eat  your  bun, 
And  fly  your  kite,  like  folk,  who  once 

Were  only  One. 

You'll  rhyme,  and  woo,  and  fight,  and 
joke, 


222  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Perhaps  you'll  pun  ! 
Such  feats  are  never  done  by  folk 
Before  they're  One. 

Some  day,  too,  you  may  have  your  joy, 

And  envy  none  ; 
Yes,  you,  yourself,  may  own  a  boy, 

Who  isn't  One. 

He'll  dance,  and  laugh,  and  crow,  he'll 
do 

As  you  have  done  : 
(You  crown  a  happy  home,  tho'  you 

Are  only  One). 

But  when  he's  grown  shall  you  be  here 

To  share  his  fun, 
And  talk  of  times  when  he  (the  dear  !) 

Was  hardly  One  ? 

Dear  child,  'tis  your  poor  lot  to  be 

My  little  son  ; 
I'm  glad,  though  I  am  old,  you  see, — 

While  you  are  One. 
1876. 


MY   SONG. 

YOU  ask  a  song, 

Such  as    of  yore,   an   autumn's  even- 
tide, 

Some  blest  boy-poet  caroll'd,— and  then 

died. 
Nay,  /  have  sung  too  long. 

Say,  shall  I  fling 

A  sigh  to  Beauty  at  her  window-pane  ? 
I   sang  there  once,  might   I   not  once 

again  ? — 
Or  tell  me  whom  to  sing. 

The  peer  of  Peers  ? 
Lord  of  the  wealth  that  gives  his  time 

employ- 
Time  to  possess,  but  hardly  to  enjoy— 
He  cannot  need  my  tears. 


224    POEMS   OF    FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

The  man  of  mind, 
Or  priest,  who  darkens  what  is  clear  as 

day? 

I  cannot  sing  them,  yet  I  will  not  say 
Such  guides  are  wholly  blind. 

The  Orator  ? 
He   quiet  lies  where  yon  fresh  hillock 

heaves  : 
'Twere   well    to    sprinkle    there    those 

laurel-leaves 
He  won, — but  never  wore. 

Or  shall  I  twine 
The  Cypress  ?     Wreath  of  glory  and  of 

gloom, — 

To  march  a  gallant  soldier  to  his  doom, 
Needs  fuller  voice  than  mine. 

No  lay  have  I, 
No  murmured   measure  meet  for  your 

delight, 
No  song  of  Love  and  Death,  to  make 

you  quite 
Forget  that  we  must  die. 


MY  SONG.  225 

Something  is  wrong,— 
The  world  is  over-wise  ;  or,  more's  the 

pity, 

These  days  are  far  too  busy  for  a  ditty, 
Yet  take  it,— take  my  Song. 

1876. 


INCHBAE. 

ANON  he  shuts  the  solemn  book 
To  heed  the  falling  of  the  brook, 
He  cares  but  little  why  it  flows, 
Or  whence  it  comes,  or  where  it  goes. 

For  here,  on  this  delightful  bank, 
His  past — his  future  are  a  blank  ; 
Enough  for  him  the  bloom,  the  cheer, 
They  all  are  his,  to-day  and  here. 

But  hark  a  voice  that  carols  free, 
And  fills  the  air  with  melody  ! 
She  comes !  a  creature  clad  in  grace, 
And  gospel  promise  in  her  face. 

So  let  her  fearlessly  intrude 
On  this  his  much  loved  solitude  ; 
Is  she  a  lovely  phantom,  or 
That  love  he  long  has  waited  for  ? 


INCHBAE.  227 

0  welcome  as  the  morning  dew ; 
Long,  long  have  I  expected  you  ; 
Come,  share  my  seat,  and,  late  or  soon, 
All  else  that's  mine  beneath  the  moon. 

And  sing  your  happy  roundelay 
While  nature  listens.     Till  to-day 
This  mirthful  stream  has  never  known 
A  cadence  gladder  than  its  own  : 

Forgive  if  I  too  fondly  gaze, 

Or  praise  the  eyes  that  others  praise  : 

1  watch'd  my  Star,  I've  wander'd  far — 
Are  you  my  joy  ?     You  know  you  are  ! 

Let  others  praise,  as  others  prize, 
The  witching  twilight  of  your  eyes — 
I  cannot  praise  you  :   I  adore, 
And  that  is  praise— and  something  more. 


ANY  POET  TO  HIS  LOVE. 

A  rather  sad  man,  still  at  times  he  wasjolly^ 
And  though  hating  a  fool  he'd  a  weakness  for  folly. 

IMMORTAL  VERSE  !     Is  mine  the  strain 
To  last  and  live  ?     As  ages  wane 
Will  one  be  found  to  twine  the  bays, 
And  praise  me  then  as  now  you  praise  ? 

Will  there  be  one  to  praise  ?     Ah  no  ! 
My  laurel  leaf  may  never  grow  ; 
My  bust  is  in  the  quarry  yet, — 
Oblivion  weaves  my  coronet. 

Immortal  for  a  month — a  week ! 
The  garlands  wither  as  I  speak ; 
The  song  will  die,  the  harp's  unstrung, — 
But,  singing,  have  I  vainly  sung? 

You  deign'd  to  lend  an  ear  the  while 
I  trill'd  my  lay.     I  won  your  smile. 


ANY   POET   TO   HIS   LOVE.          229 

Now,  let  it  die,  or  let  it  live, — 
My  verse  was  all  I  had  to  give. 

The  linnet  flies  on  wistful  wings, 

And   finds    a    bower,    and    lights    and 

sings  ; 

Enough  if  my  poor  verse  endures 
To  light,  and  live — to  die  in  yours. 

1875- 


THE   CUCKOO. 

WE  heard  it  calling,  clear  and  low, 
That  tender  April  morn  ;  we  stood 
And  listened  in  the  quiet  wood 

We  heard  it,  ay,  long  years  ago. 

It  came,  and  with  a  strange,  sweet  cry, 
A  Friend,  but  from  a  far-off  land  ; 
We  stood  and  listened,  hand  in  hand, 

And  heart  to  heart,  my  Love  and  I . 

In  dreamland  then  we  found  our  joy, 
And  so  it  seem'd  as  'twere  the  Bird 
That  Helen  in  old  times  had  heard 

At  noon  beneath  the  oaks  of  Troy. 

O  time  far  off,  and  yet  so  near ! 

It  came  to  her  in  that  hush'd  grove, 
It  warbled  while  the  wooing  throve, 

It  sang  the  song  she  liked  to  hear. 

And  now  I  hear  its  voice  again, 
And  still  its  message  is  of  peace, 
It  sings  of  love  that  will  not  cease — 

For  me  it  never  sings  in  vain. 


HEINE  TO   HIS  MISTRESS. 

WHAT  do  the  violets  ail, 

So  wan,  so  shy  ? 
Why  are  the  roses  pale  ? 

Oh  why  ?     Oh  why  ? 

The  lark  sad  music  makes 

To  sullen  skies  ; 
From  yonder  flowery  brakes 

Dead  odours  rise. 

Why  is  the  sun's  new  birth 

A  dawn  of  gloom  ? 
Oh  why  is  this  fair  earth 

My  joyless  tomb  ? 

I  wait  apart  and  sigh 

I  call  to  thee  ; 
Why,  Heart's-beloved,  why 

Didst  thou  leave  me  ? 
1876. 


FROM  THE  CRADLE. 

THEY  tell  me  I  was  born  a  long 

Three  months  ago, 
But  whether  they  be  right  or  wrong 

I  hardly  know. 
I  sleep,  I  smile,  I  cannot  crawl, 

But  I  can  cry  : 
At  present  I  am  rather  small — 

A  Babe  am  I. 

The  changing  lights  of  sun  and  shade 

Are  baby  toys ; 
The  flowers  and  birds  are  not  afraid 

Of  baby  boys. 
Some  day  I'll  wish  that  I  could  be 

A  bird  and  fly  ; 
At  present  I  can't  wish — you  see 

A  Babe  am  I. 


THE  TWINS. 

YES,  there  they  lie,  so  small,  so  quaint, 

Two  mouths,  two  noses,  and  two  chins  ; 
What  Painter  shall  we  get  to  paint 

And  glorify  the  Twins  ? 
To  give  us  all  the  charm  that  dwells 
In  tiny  cloaks  and  coral-bells, 
And  all  those  other  pleasant  spells 
Of  Babyhood,  and  not  forget 
The  silver  mug  for  either  Pet — 

No  babe  should  be  without  it  ? 
Come,  Fairy  Limner  !  you  can  thrill 
Our  hearts  with  pink  and  daffodil, 
And  white  rosette,  and  dimpled  frill  ; 
Come,  paint  our  little  Jack  and  Jill, 

And  don't  be  long  about  it  1 


AN   EPITAPH. 

HER  worth,  her  wit,  her  loving  smile 

Were  with  me  but  a  little  while  ; 

She  came,   she  went;    yet  though  that 

Voice 

Is  hush'd  that  made  the  heart  rejoice, 
And  though  the  grave  is  dark  and  chill, 
Her  memory  is  fragrant  still, — 
She  stands  on  the  eternal  hill. 

Here  pause,  kind  soul,  whoe'er  you  be, 
And  weep  for  her,  and  pray  for  me. 


BABY   MINE. 

BABY  mine,  with  the  grave,  grave  face, 
Where  did  you  get  that  royal  calm, 

Too  staid  for  joy,  too  still  for  grace  ? 
I  bend  as  I  kiss  your  pink,  soft  palm  ; 

Are  you  the  first  of  a  nobler  race, 
Baby  mine  ? 


You  come  from  the  region  of  long  ago, 
And  gazing  awhile  where  the  seraphs 

dwell 

Has  given  your  face  a  glory  and  glow — 
Of  that  brighter  land  have  you  ought 

to  tell? 

I  seem  to  have  known  it— I  more  would 
know, 

Baby  mine. 


236  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Your  calm,   blue   eyes  have    a   far-off 

reach, 
Look  at  me  now  with  those  wondrous 

eyes, 
Why   are   we    doom'd   to    the   gift  of 

speech 
While  you  are  silent,  and  sweet,  and 

wise  ? 

You  have  much  to  learn — you  have  more 
to  teach, 

Baby  mine. 


DU    RYS    DE    MADAME    D'ALLE- 
BRET. 

How  fair  those  locks  which  now  the  light 

wind  stirs  ! 

What  eyes  she  has,  and  what  a  per- 
fect arm  ! 
And  yet  methinks  that  little  Laugh  of 

hers — 
That  little  Laugh  is  still  her  crowning 

charm. 
Where'er  she    passes,   country-side    or 

town, 
The  streets  make  festa,  and  the  fields 

rejoice. 
Should  sorrow  come,  as  'twill,  to  cast 

me  down, 
Or  Death,  as  come  he  must,  to  hush 

my  voice, 
Her  Laugh  would  wake  me,  just  as  now 

it  thrills  me — 

That  little  giddy  Laugh  wherewith  she 
kills  me. 


THE  LADY  I  LOVE. 

THE    Lady    I   sing  is  as  charming  as 

Spring, 

I  own  that  I  love  the  dear  Lady  I  sing  : 
She  is  gay,  she  is  sad,  she  is  good,  she 

is  fair, 
She  lives  at  a  Number  in Square. 

It  is  not  21,  it  is  not  23 — 

You  never  shall  get  her  Number  from 

me ; 
If  you  did,  very  soon  you'd  be  mounting 

the  stair 
Of  Number  (no  matter  what !) 

Square. 

They  say  she   is   clever.     Indeed  it  is 

said 
She  is  making  a  Novel  right  out  of  her 

Head! 


THE   LADY   I   LOVE.  239 

That  poor  little  Head  !    If  her  heart  were 

to  spare, 
I'd  break,  and  Pd  mend  it  in 

Square. 

I've  a  heart  of  my  own,  and,  in  prose  as 

in  rhymes, 
This  heart  has  been  fractured  a  good 

many  times  ; 

An  excellent  heart,  tho'  in  sorry  repair — 
Little  Friend,  may  I  mend  it  in 

Square  ? 

11  What  nonsense  you  talk:1     Yes,  but 

still  I  am  one 
Who  feels  pretty  grave  when  he  seems 

full  of  fun ; 
Some  people  are  pretty,  and  yet  full  of 

care — 
And   Some  One   is  pretty  in 

Square. 

I  know  I  am  singing  in  old-fashion'd 
phrase 

The  music  that  pleased  in  the  old- 
fashion'd  days ; 


240  POEMS  OF  FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

Alas,  I  know,  too,  I've  an  old-fashion'd 

air — 
Oh,  why  did  I  ever  see Square ! 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The  writer  of  prose,  by  intelligence  taught, 
Says  the  thing  that  will  please,  in  the  way  that 

he  ought, 
But  your  poor  despised  Bard,  who  by  Nature 

is  blest, 

(In  the  scope  of  a  couplet,  or  guise  of  a  jest,) 
Says  the  thing  that  he  pleases  as  pleases  him 

best. 


OUR  PHOTOGRAPHS. 

SHE  play'd  me  false,  but  that's  not  why 
I  haven't  quite  forgiven  Di, 

Although  I've  tried  : 
This  curl  was  hers,  so  brown,  so  bright, 
She  gave  it  me  one  blissful  night, 

And — more  beside ! 

Our  photographs  were  group'd  together  ; 
She  wore  the  darling  hat  and  feather 

That  I  adore  ; 
In  profile  by  her  side  I  sat 
Reading  my  poetry— but  that 

She'd  heard  before. 

Why,  after  all,  Di  threw  me  over 
I  never  knew,  I  can't  discover, 

And  hardly  guess  ; 
May  be  Smith's  lyrics  she  decided 
Were  sweeter  than  the  sweetest  I  did— 

I  acquiesce. 


242    POEMS   OF   FREDERICK   LOCKER. 

A  week  before  their  wedding  day, 
That  Beast  was  call'd  in  haste  away 

To  join  the  Staff. 

Di  gave  him  then,  with  tearful  mien, 
Her  only  photograph.     I've  seen 

That  photograph, 

I've  seen  it  in  Smith's  pocket-book  I 
Just  think  !  her  hat,  her  tender  look, 

Are  now  that  Brute's  ! 
Before  she  gave  it,  off  she  cut 
My  body,  head  and  lyrics,  but 
She  was  obliged,  the  little  Slut, 

To  leave  my  Boots. 


MA  FUTURE. 

WE  parted,  but  again  I  stopt 

To  greet  her  at  the  door, 
Her  thimble,  mine  the  gift,  had  dropt 

Unheeded  to  the  floor. 

Her  eyes  met  mine,  her  eyelids  fell 
To  veil  their  sweet  content ; 

Her  happy  blush  and  kind  farewell 
Were  with  me  as  I  went. 

And  when  I  join'd  the  hitman  tide 

And  turmoil  of  the  street, 
A  Spirit-form  was  at  my  side, 

And  gladness  wing'd  my  feet. 

Exultingly  the  world  went  by, 
The  town  and  I  were  gay  ! 

And  one  far  stretch  of  soft  blue  sky 
Seem'd  leading  me  away. 

I  left  her  happy,  and  I  know 

That  we  shall  meet  anon  ; 
I  left  my  Love  an  hour  ago, 

And  yet  she  is  not  gone. 


MY  NEIGHBOUR'S   WIFE! 

HARK  !  hark  to  my  neighbour's  flute  ! 
Yon  powder'd  slave, .  that  ox,  that  ass 

are  his  : 

Hark  to  his  wheezy  pipe  ;   my  neigh- 
bour is 
A  worthy  sort  of  brute. 

My    tuneful  neighbour's    rich  —  has 

houses,  lands, 
A  wife  (confound  his  flute) — a  handsome 

wife ! 

Her  love  must  give  a  gusto  to  his  life. 
See  yonder — there  she  stands. 

She  turns,  she  gazes,  she  has  lustrous 

eyes, 

A  throat  like  Juno  and  Aurora's  arms — 

Per  Bacco,  what  a  paragon  of  charms  ! 

My  neighbour's  drawn  a  prize. 


MY  NEIGHBOUR'S  WIFE  !  245 

Yet,  somehow,  life's  a  nuisance  with 

its  woes, 
Disease   and  doubt— and   that    eternal 

preaching  : 
We've   suffer'd   from   our    early    pious 

teaching — 
We  suffer — goodness  knows. 

How  vain  the  wealth  that  breeds  its 

own  vexation  ! 

Yet  few  of  us  would  care  to  quite  fore- 
go it  : 
Then  weariness  of  life — and  many  know 

it— 
Is  not  a  glad  sensation  : 

And  therefore,  neighbour  mine,  with- 
out a  sting 
I  contemplate  thy  fields,  thy  house,  thy 

flocks, 

I  covet  not  thy  man,  thine  ass,  thine  ox, 
Thy  flute,  thy — anything. 


ARCADY. 

LIVELY   SHEPHERDESS. 

Now  mind, 

He'll  call  on  you  to  morrow  at  eleven, 
And  beg  that  you  will  dine  with  us  at 

seven  ; 
If,  when  He  calls,  you  see  that  He  has 

got 
His  green  umbrella,  then  you'll  know 

He'll  not 

Be  going  to  the  House,  and  you'll  decline, 
But  if  He  hasn't  it,  you'll  come  and  dine. 

HAPPY    SHEPHERD. 

But  if  it  rains  :  then  how  ?  and  where  ? 

and  when  ? 
And  how  about  the  green  umbrella  then  ? 

LIVELY   SHEPHERDESS. 

Then  He'll  be  Wet,  that's  all,  for  if  I 

don't 
Choose  He  should  take  it,  why,  of  course! 

you  goose  !  he  won't. 


A  KIND  PROVIDENCE. 

HE  dropt  a  tear  on  Susan's  bier, 

He  seem'd  a  most  despairing  Swain  ; 
But  bluer  sky  brought  newer  tie, 

And — would  he  wish  her  back  again  ? 
The  moments  fly,  and  when  we  die, 

Will  Philly  Thistletop  complain  ? 
She'll  cry  and  sigh,  and — dry  her  eye, 

And  let  herself  be  woo'd  again. 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


"St.  GEORGE'S,  HANOVER  SQUARE." 

"  DANS  le  bonheur  de  nos  meilleurs  amis 
nous  trouvons  souvent  quelque  chose  qui  ne 
nous  plait  pas  entierement." 


"A  HUMAN  SKULL." 

"  IN  our  last  month's  Magazine  you  may 
remember  there  were  some  verses  about  a 
portion  of  a  skeleton.  Did  you  remark  how 
the  poet  and  present  proprietor  of  the  human 
skull  at  once  settled  the  sex  of  it,  and  de- 
termined off-hand  that  it  must  have  belonged 
to  a  woman?  Such  skulls  are  locked  up  in 
many  gentlemen's  hearts  and  memories.  Blue- 
beard, you  know,  had  a  whole  museum  of  them 
—as  that  imprudent  little  last  wife  of  his  found 
out  to  her  cost.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
lady,  we  suppose,  would  select  hers  of  the 
sort  which  had  carried  beards  when  in  the 
flesh." — Adventures  of  Philip  on  his  Way 


252  NOTES. 

through  the  World.     Cornhill  Magazine,  Jan* 
uary,  1861.* 

"To  MY  OLD  FRIEND  POSTUMUS." 

The  Well-beloved  !—B.    L.    died  26th    July, 

1853- 
"  To  MY  MISTRESS." 

M.  Deschanel  quotes  the  following  charm- 
ing little  poem  by  Corneille,  addressed  to  a 
young  lady  who  had  not  been  quite  civil  to 
him.  He  says  with  truth — "  Le  sujet  est  leger, 
le  rhythme  court,  mais  on  y  retrouve  la  fierte 
de  I'homme,  et  aussi  1'ampleur  du  tragique." 
The  last  four  stanzas,  in  particular,  are  brimful 
of  spirit,  and  the  mixture  of  pride  and  vanity 
they  display  is  remarkable. 

"  Marquise,  si  mon  visage 
A  quelques  traits  un  peu  vieux, 
Souvenez-vous,  qu'a  mon  age 
Vous  ne  vaudrez  guere  mieux. 

*When  I  first  sent  these  lines  to  the  Cornhill 
Magazine,  Mr.  Thackeray,  the  editor,  and  an  admirable 
judge  of  verse,  proposed  an  alteration  in  the  third 
stanza,  and  he  returned  it  to  me  as  it  now  stands. 
Originally  I  had  made  it  to  run  thus  : — 

Did  she  live  yesterday,  or  ages  sped  ? 

What  colour  were  the  eyes  when  bright  and  waking? 
And  were  your  ringlets  fair  ?     Poor  little  head  ! 

— Poor  little  heart !  that  long  has  done  with  aching 


NOTES.  253 

"  Le  temps  aux  plus  belles  choses 
Se  plait  £  faire  un  affront, 
Et  saura  faner  vos  roses 
Comme  il  a  ride  mon  front. 

"  Le  meme  cours  des  planetes 
Regie  nos  jours  et  nos  nuits  ; 
On  m'a  vu  ce  que  vous  etes, 
Vous  serez  ce  que  je  suis. 

"  Cependant  j'ai  quelques  charm es 
Qui  sont  assez  eclatants 
Pour  n'avoir  pas  trop  d'alarmes 
De  ces  ravages  du  tempa. 

"  Vous  en  avez  qu'on  adore, 
Mais  ceux  que  vous  meprisez 
Pourraient  bien  durer  encore 
Quand  ceux-U  seront  uses. 

"  Us  pourront  sauver  la  gloire 
Des  yeux  qui  me  semblent  doux, 
Et  dans  mille  ans  faire  croire 
Ce  qu'il  me  plaira  de  vous. 

11  Chez  cette  race  nouvelle 
Od  j'aurai  quelque  credit, 
Vous  ne  passerez  pour  belle 
Qu'autant  que  je  1'aurai  dit. 

"  Pensez-y,  belle  Marquise, 
Quoiqu'un  grison  fasse  effroi, 
II  vaut  qu'on  le  courtise 
Quand  il  est  fait  comme  moi." 


254  NOTES. 

"  THE  ROSE  AND  THE  RING." 

MR.  THACKERAY  spent  a  portion  of  the 
winter  of  1854  in  Rome,  and  while  there  he 
wrote  his  little  Christmas  story  called  "The 
Rose  and  the  Ring."  He  was  a  great  friend 
of  the  distinguished  American  sculptor,  Mr. 
Story,  and  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  his  house. 
I  have  heard  Mr.  Story  speak  with  emotion  of 
the  kindness  of  Mr.  Thackery  to  his  little 
daughter,  then  recovering  from  a  severe  illness, 
and  he  told  me  that  Mr. Thackeray  used  to  come 
nearly  every  day  to  read  to  Miss  Story,  often 
bringing  portions  of  his  manuscript  with  him. 

Five  or  six  years  afterwards  Miss  Story 
showed  me  a  very  pretty  copy  of  "  The  Rose 
and  the  Ring,"  which  Mr.  Thackeray  had  sent 
her,  with  a  facetious  sketch  of  himself  in  the 
act  of  presenting  her  with  the  work. 

"NUPTIAL  VERSES." 

THESE  lines  were  published  in  1863  in  "  A 
Welcome,"  dedicated  to  the  Princess  of  Wales ; 
and  "An  Aspiration"  was  written  for  two 
Woodcuts  in  "  A  Round  of  Days."  (Christ- 
mas, 1865.) 

'•THE  JESTER'S  MORAL." 
"  I  WISH  that  I  could  run  away 

From  House,  and  Court,  and  Levee : 
Where  bearded  men  appear  to-day, 
Just  Eton  boys*  grown  heavy." 

W.  M.  PRAED. 


NOTES.  255 


"A  GARDEN  IDYLL." 

WHEN  these  verses  appeared  in  Macmillaris 
Magazine  they  ran  as  follows,  but  many  of  my 
readers  could  not  see  the  point,  and  others, 
seeing  it,  disliked  it  so  heartily,  that  I  altered 
them  in  sheer  vexation  ;  now  they  have  two 
readings,  and  can  take  their  choice. 

GERALDINE  AND  I. 

Di  te,  Damasippe,  deaeque 
Verum  ob  consilium  donent  tonsore. 

I  HAVE  talk'd  with  her  often  in  noon-day  heat, 
We  have  walk'd  under  wintry  skies  ; 

Her  voice  is  the  dearest  voice,  and  sweet 
Is  the  light  in  her  gentle  eyes  ; 

It  is  bliss  in  the  silent  woods,  among 
Gay  crowds,  or  in  any  place, 

To  mould  her  mind,  to  gaze  in  her  young 
Confiding  face. 

For  ever  may  roses  divinely  blow, 

And  wine-dark  pansies  charm 
By  that  prim  box  path  where  I  felt  the  glow 

Of  her  dimpled,  trusting  arm, 
And  the  sweep  of  her  silk  as  she  turn'd  and 

smiled 

A  smile  as  fair  as  her  pearls  ; 
The  breeze  was  in  love  with  the  darling  child, 
And  coax'd  her  curls. 


256  NOTES. 

She  show'd  me  her  ferns  and  woodbine  sprays, 

Foxglove  and  jasmine  stars, 
A  mist  of  blue  in  the  beds,  a  blaze 

Of  red  in  the  celadon  jars  : 
And  velvety  bees  in  convolvulus  bells, 

And  roses  of  bountiful  Spring. 
But  I  said — "Though  roses  and  bees  have 
spells, 

They  have  thorn  and  sting." 

She  show'd  me  ripe  peaches  behind  a  net 

As  fine  as  her  veil,  and  fat 
Gold  fish  a-gape,  who  lazily  met 

For  her  crumbs— I  grudged  them  that ! 
A  squirrel,  some  rabbits  with  long  lop  ears, 

And  guinea-pigs,  tortoise-shell — wee  ; 
And  I  told  her  that  eloquent  truth  inheres 
In  all  we  see. 

I  lifted  her  doe  by  its  lops,  quoth  I, 

"  Even  here  deep  meaning  lies, — 
Why  have  squirrels  these  ample  tails,  and  why 

Have  rabbits  these  prominent  eyes  ?  " 
She  smiled  and  said,  as  she  twirl'd  her  veil, 

"  For  some  nice  little  cause,  no  doubt — 
If  you  lift  a  guinea-pig  up  by  the  tail 
His  eyes  drop  out !  " 

1868. 

"  ST.  JAMES'S  STREET." 

I  HOPE  my  readers,  whoever  they  may  be,  will 
not  credit  me  with  all  the  sentiments  expressed 
in  this  volume.  I  am  told  that  these  lines 


NOTES.  257 

have  disturbed  some  Americans,  but  surely 
without  cause.  The  remark  in  the  seventh 
stanza  is  natural  in  the  mouth  of  a  rather  ex- 
clusive habitue  of  St.  James's,  who  has  the 
mortification  to  feel  that  he  is  no  longer  young, 
who  is  too  shallow-minded  to  appreciate  our 
advance  in  civilisation  during  the  last  forty 
years,  but  who  is  nevertheless  sufficiently  keen 
to  see  what  is  possible  in  the  future.  My 
friends  know  I  have  a  sincere  admiration  for 
the  American  people. 

"A  NICE  CORRESPONDENT." 

ERE  long,  perhaps  in  the  next  generation, 
the  word  NICE,  and  some  other  equally  com- 
mon words,  may  have  passed  into  the  limbo  of 
elegant,  genteel,  &c.  Fashions  change,  and 
certain  words  sink  in  the  scale  of  gentility,  and 
pass,  like  houses,  into  the  hands  of  humbler  oc- 
cupants. But  what  can  poor  poets  do  I 

"A  WINTER  FANTASY." 

THE  two  first  stanzas  are  imitated  from 
Theophile  Gautier. 


THE  kind  of  verse  I  have  attempted  in  some 
of  the  pieces  in  this  volume  was  in  repute  dur- 
ing the  era  of  Swift  and  Prior,  and  again 
during  the  earlier  years  of  this  century.  Af- 


258  NOTES. 

terwards  it  fell  into  comparative  neglect,  but 
has  now  regained  a  little  of  its  old  popularity. 
Herrick,  Suckling,  Waller,  Swift,  Prior, 
Cowper,  Landor,  Moore,  Praed,  and  Thack- 
eray may  be  considered  its  representative  men, 
and  each  has  his  peculiar  merit.  Herrick  is  a 
finished  artist,  with  a  delightful  feeling  and 
fancy,  and  some  of  his  flower-pieces  are  as 
perfect  as  anything  of  the  kind  in  the  lan- 
guage. We  admire  Suckling  for  his  gusto, 
and  careless,  natural  grace  ;  while  Waller  has 
never  been  equalled  for  the  way  in  which  he 
blends  his  courtly  wit  and  rhythmic  elegance  ; 
his  lines  ''  To  a  Rose,"  and  "  On  a  Girdle,"  in 
these  respects,  leave  nothing  to  be  desired. 
Swift  is  pre-eminent  for  the  intensity  of  his 
mordant  humour,  as  Prior  for  his  genial  and 
sprightly  wit,  or  as  Hazlitt  very  happily  ex- 
presses it,  his  "  mischievous  gaiety"  Cowper 
is  a  master  of  tender  and  playful  irony.  Lan- 
dor is  wanting  in  humour  and  variety,  but  he 
atones  for  it  by  his  pathos,  and  his  pellucid 
and  classical  style.  Moore,  as  a  satirist,  is  a 
very  expert  swordsman,  and  although  there  is 
rather  too  much  tinsel  in  his  sentiment,  he  has 
wit,  and  fun,  and  music,  and  sparkling  fancy 
in  abundance.  Praed  has  considerable  fancy, 
but  it  is  less  wild  than  Moore's,  while  his  sym- 
pathies are  narrower  than  Thackeray's ;  he 
has  plenty  of  wit,  however,  and  a  highly  idio- 
matic, incisive,  and  most  finished  style,  and,  in 
his  peculiar  vein,  has  never  been  equalled, 


NOTES.  259 

and  it  may  be  safely  affirmed,  never  can  be  ex- 
celled. What  am  I  to  say  of  Thackeray  ?  As 
he  is  yet  rather  too  near  to  us,  I  will  not  criti- 
cize him  ;  but  I  may  observe  that  he  is  almost 
as  humorous  as  Swift,  and  occasionally  almost 
as  tender  as  Cowper,  and  one  does  not  exactly 
see  why  he  might  not  have  been  as  good  an  ar- 
tist as  most  of  those  above  mentioned. 

Lovelace  has  given  us  one  or  two  little 
poems,  by  no  means  perfect,  but  which  in 
their  way  are  admirable.  The  gay  and  gallant 
Colonel  is  at  this  moment  one  of  our  really 
popular  minor  poets,  and  all  for  the  sake  of 
some  two  short  pages  of  verse !  Marlowe, 
Wotton,  Ben  Jonson,  Raleigh,  and  Montrose 
must  not  be  forgotten,  as  all  have  written  ex- 
cellently ;  not  to  speak  of  Carew,  Sedley,  Par- 
nell  ("When  thy  beauty  appears"),  Pope, 
Gray,  Goldsmith,  Captain  Morris  ("  I'm  often 
asked  by  plodding  Souls  "),  Canning  (the  im- 
mortal "Needy  Knife-grinder"),  Luttrell, 
Rogers,  Coleridge,  Mrs.  Barbauld  ("  Human 
Life"),  W.  R.  Spencer,  the  brothers  Smith 
(the  inimitable  "Rejected  Addresses"), 
Haynes  Bayly,  Dr.  Barham,  Peacock  (''  Love 
and  Age"),  Francis  Mahony  ("The  Bells  of 
Shandon"),  Leigh  Hunt,  Hood,  Lord  Macau- 
lay  ("A  Valentine"),  Mrs.  Browning,  and 
many  others,  dead  and  living. 

Light  lyrical  verse  should  be  short,  elegant, 
refined,  and  fanciful,  not  seldom  distinguished 
by  chastened  sentiment,  and  often  playful,  and 


260  NOTES. 

it  should  have  one  uniform  and  simple  design. 
The  tone  should  not  be  pitched  high,  and  the 
language  should  be  idiomatic,  the  rhythm 
crisp  and  sparkling,  the  rhyme  frequent  and 
never  forced,  while  the  entire  poem  should  be 
marked  by  tasteful  moderation,  high  finish, 
and  completeness  ;  for  however  trivial  the  sub- 
ject matter  may  be,  indeed  rather  in  propor- 
tion to  its  triviality,  subordination  to  the  rules 
of  composition,  and  perfection  of  execution, 
should  be  strictly  enforced.  Each  piece  can- 
not be  expected  to  exhibit  all  these  character- 
istics, but  the  qualities  of  brevity  and  buoy- 
ancy are  essential. 

It  should  also  have  the  air  of  being  sponta- 
neous ;  indeed,  to  write  it  well  is  a  difficult 
accomplishment,  and  no  one  has  fully  suc- 
ceeded in  it  without  possessing  a  certain  gift 
of  irony,  which  is  not  only  a  rarer  quality  than 
humour,  or  even  wit,  but  is  altogether  less  com- 
monly met  with  than  is  sometimes  imagined. 
The  poem  may  be  tinctured  with  a  well-bred 
philosophy,  it  may  be  gay  and  gallant,  it  may 
be  playfully  malicious  or  tenderly  ironical,  it 
may  display  lively  banter,  and  it  may  be  satiri- 
cally facetious,  it  may  even,  considering  it  as  a 
mere  work  of  art,  be  pagan  in  its  philosophy 
or  trifling  in  its  tone,  but  it  must  never  be  pon- 
derous or  commonplace.  It  is  needless  to  say 
that  good  sense  will  be  found  to  underlie  all 
the  best  poetry  of  whatever  kind.  There  are 
good  poets  whose  productions  are  more  pol' 


NOTES.  261 

ished  than  finished,  their  stanzas  are  less  pen 
feet  than  their  single  lines,  and  their  whole 
poems  are  not  so  satisfactory  as  either  ;  and 
again  there  are  better  poets  who  are  more  fin- 
ished than  polished ;  now  it  seems  to  me  that 
both  qualities  are  peculiar  to,  and  are  pretty 
equally  balanced  in  the  best  productions  of  the 
authors  I  have  mentioned  above. 

It  is  interesting  to  see  what  Voltaire*  says 
of  rhyme,  its  value,  and  its  difficulties,  and 
then  to  observe  with  how  little  success  it  is 
usually  practised.  Rhyme  and  alliteration 
cannot  be  too  important  features  in  burlesque 
verse.  They  may  be  prominent  in  satire  and 
semi-humorous  poetry,  but  their  presence 
should  be  less  and  less  marked  as  the  poem 
rises  in  tone.  It  is  consoling  to  find  that  the 
most  worn  and  the  worst  used  rhymes  and 
metres  instantly  recover  all  their  charm  and 
freshness  in  the  hands  of  a  master. 

This  volume  is  now  arranged  finally.  It  is 
with  diffidence  that  I  again  offer  it  to  the  pub- 
lic. No  one  is  so  painfully  aware  as  myself  of 
its  many  shortcomings,  its  extreme  insignifi- 


"  We  insist  that  the  rhyme  shall  cost  nothing  to  the 
ideas,  that  it  shall  neither  be  trivial,  nor  too  far-fetched  ; 
we  exact  rigorously  in  a  verse  the  same  purity,  the 
same  precision,  as  in  prose.  We  do  not  admit  the 
smallest  license  ;  we  require  an  author  to  carry  without 
a  break  all  these  chains,  and  yet  that  he  should  appear 
ever  free." 


262  NOTES. 

cance,  and  its  great  incompleteness,  and  I 
never  felt  it  more  keenly  than  now,  in  sending 
out  this  the  eighth  edition.  My  dear  reader, 
if  I  have  included  pieces  which  ought  to  have 
been  consigned  to  the  dust-bin  of  immediate 
oblivion,  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me. 


THE    END. 


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